In the ensuing fortnight, chaperoned by the maiden aunt, for Mrs. Dennant disliked driving, he sat opposite to Antonia during many drives; he played sets of tennis with her; but it was in the evenings after dinner—­those long evenings on a parquet floor in wicker chairs dragged as far as might be from the heating apparatus—­that he seemed so very near her.  The community of isolation drew them closer.  In place of a companion he had assumed the part of friend, to whom she could confide all her home-sick aspirations.  So that, even when she was sitting silent, a slim, long foot stretched out in front, bending with an air of cool absorption over some pencil sketches which she would not show him—­even then, by her very attitude, by the sweet freshness that clung about her, by her quick, offended glances at the strange persons round, she seemed to acknowledge in some secret way that he was necessary.  He was far from realising this; his intellectual and observant parts were hypnotised and fascinated even by her failings.  The faint freckling across her nose, the slim and virginal severeness of her figure, with its narrow hips and arms, the curve of her long neck-all were added charms.  She had the wind and rain look, a taste of home; and over the glaring roads, where the palm-tree shadows lay so black, she seemed to pass like the very image of an English day.

One afternoon he had taken her to play tennis with some friends, and afterwards they strolled on to her favourite view.  Down the Toulon road gardens and hills were bathed in the colour of ripe apricot; an evening crispness had stolen on the air; the blood, released from the sun’s numbing, ran gladly in the veins.  On the right hand of the road was a Frenchman playing bowls.  Enormous, busy, pleased, and upright as a soldier, pathetically trotting his vast carcass from end to end, he delighted Shelton.  But Antonia threw a single look at the huge creature, and her face expressed disgust.  She began running up towards the ruined tower.

Shelton let her keep in front, watching her leap from stone to stone and throw back defiant glances when he pressed behind.  She stood at the top, and he looked up at her.  Over the world, gloriously spread below, she, like a statue, seemed to rule.  The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, her young bosom heaved, her eyes shone, and the flowing droop of her long, full sleeves gave to her poised figure the look of one who flies.  He pulled himself up and stood beside her; his heart choked him, all the colour had left his cheeks.

“Antonia,” he said, “I love you.”

She started, as if his whisper had intruded on her thoughts; but his face must have expressed his hunger, for the resentment in her eyes vanished.

They stood for several minutes without speaking, and then went home.  Shelton painfully revolved the riddle of the colour in her face.  Had he a chance then?  Was it possible?  That evening the instinct vouchsafed at times to lovers in place of reason caused him to pack his bag and go to Cannes.  On returning, two days later, and approaching the group in the centre of the Winter Garden, the voice of the maiden aunt reading aloud an extract from the Morning Post reached him across the room.