Читать книгу Love at The Ritz - Барбара Картленд - Страница 3

The Earl of Cuttesdale was in an exceedingly bad temper.

He had been in a rage when he left London because his back was hurting him so much that it was an agony to make even the slightest move.

At least, he told himself, he would try something new.

At the same time he continued to abuse the English Medical Profession all the way over the English Channel and again on the train journey to Paris.

His daughter, Vilma, who was with him, was quite used to his rages and so paid little attention to him.

His valet, Herbert, who had been with him for years, had learnt to say nothing until the storm was over.

When they neared Paris, the Earl had said to them both,

“Now you quite understand, as I have no wish for anyone to know that I am like a broken doll, I am from this moment Colonel Crawshaw and Lady Vilma is Miss Crawshaw.”

As he had already stressed this at least a dozen times, Vilma thought that neither she nor Herbert were likely to forget it.

They drove to Paris to the luxurious house which the Earl had borrowed on previous occasions from his good friend, the Vicomte de Servaiss.

The Vicomte, at the moment, was in the country.

He had, however, replied to the Earl’s letter saying he was only too delighted for him to use his house in the Rue St. Honoré.

Vilma had never been there before and she was delighted with the beauty of the rooms and the way they were lit in the new fashion by electricity.

“It is very pleasing, Papa,” she said, “to see that the way we have done this at home is absolutely correct for I believe that the French are more advanced in electrical matters than we are.”

The Earl merely glowered in reply and after a good dinner he was assisted up to bed so that he could rest his back.

In the morning he was slightly better-tempered when Vilma brought him the newspapers.

“It is so thrilling, Papa,” she enthused. “The new Hotel Ritz was opened yesterday and apparently all the important people we have ever heard of were present.”

“I dislike hotels!” the Earl retorted firmly.

“I know, Papa, but they say that the Ritz is quite different from any other hotel that there has ever been. Can you imagine that there is a bathroom for every bedroom?”

For a moment the Earl looked as if he admitted that this was a good innovation.

Then he said,

“The Prince of Wales is perfectly content to stay at the Bristol Hotel, where there is only one bathroom on each floor.”

Vilma was not listening to him as she was reading the newspaper. She could read French as easily as she could read English.

After a long pause she said,

“Fancy! The Vanderbilts were at the opening and so were the Grand Dukes Michael and Alexander and the beautiful Otero. I am sure I have heard of her before.”

“If you have, you should not have,” the Earl snapped.

“Why not?” Vilma asked.

The Earl paused for a moment to search for the right words.

Then he said,

“She is a courtesan, I admit a grand one, but nevertheless her name would never have been mentioned by your mother or by your grandmother.”

Vilma laughed.

“You know, Papa, that you and I can talk about everything and anything and that is what I enjoy more than anything else.”

The Earl’s eyes softened.

He was, in fact, very fond of his only daughter.

He thought her so beautiful that it was unlikely, now that she was launched into Society, that he would keep her for long.

He had, however, by taking her away in June, made her miss some of the most important balls that were taking place in the London Season.

However she did not seem to mind.

In fact she was more interested in going to Paris than in attending the elaborate functions given by the mothers of her contemporaries.

Reading the newspaper again, she exclaimed,

“The English were there too, the Duke of Marlborough and then the Dukes of Portland, Sutherland and Norfolk, all there with their wives.”

“That is surely very something new!” the Earl exclaimed. “In my day, when one came to Paris, one left one’s wife behind.”

Vilma laughed.

“Now that, Papa, is just the sort of thing you ought not to say to me!”

“You brought it on yourself,” the Earl responded. “Now, make sure that none of that lot learn that I am here. I have no wish for them to laugh and jeer at me because, for the first time in years, I have fallen off a horse.”

“It is very understandable, Papa,” Vilma said, “considering how wild Hercules is. But you would ride him.”

The Earl recognised that this was certainly true.

He was a magnificent rider and he was quite confident that the stallion he had bought from a friend as he could not control it would be ‘child’s play’ as far as he was concerned.

Unfortunately, Hercules, a fine stallion, had shied at one of the spotted deer in the Park.

The Earl, taken unawares, had been thrown heavily to the ground.

Vilma knew only too well how proud her father was of his equestrian reputation and she knew that he would feel very hurt if any of his friends crowed over him because he was hors de combat.

“No one will know you are here, Papa” she said soothingly, “and I will be very careful to remember that I am Miss Crawshaw. After all I shall not be lying, as it is one of your names.”

The Earl belonged to a very old family going back to pre-Tudor times.

‘Crawshaw’ was one of the titles his forebears had collected over the centuries.

He regularly used it when he went abroad, especially when he did not wish to be made a fuss of by the British Embassy or pursued by title-seeking foreigners.

But he had never been more eager to be incognito than he was at this moment.

He thought with a shudder how the Duke of Marlborough, who had a somewhat spiteful sense of humour, would make the most of his humiliating condition.

Because he was looking depressed, Vilma went up to his bed and, bending down, kissed his cheek.

“Cheer up, Papa,” she urged. “I am sure that this man will work miracles on you and you will soon be back riding, as you always do well, to the delight and envy of everyone who sees you.”

“You are a good girl, Vilma,” the Earl said, “and I will break in that damned stallion if it kills me.”

Vilma knew only too well that it was no use arguing with him.

She therefore continued reading about the opening of the Ritz Hotel.

The newspapers reported how amazed everybody was at what they had found there.

Because César Ritz had caused such a sensation, the newspapers carried many columns concerning his career.

They described how he had been determined to build a hotel that was different from all the others.

Reading on, she learned that César Ritz had been born in the Swiss village of Niederwald in 1850.

He was the thirteenth child of a peasant couple whose family line was long if humble and the stone stove in their living room bore a unique crest that had been reproduced on the hotel writing paper.

César had looked after goats and cows belonging to his father, who was the Mayor of the village.

It had a population of about two hundred and the boy went to a local school, although his father was of the opinion that it was a waste of time.

His mother, however, was ambitious for her children to make a success of their lives.

But César, when he was very young, knew exactly what he wished to do.

When he reached the age of twelve, he was sent to Sion in Switzerland to learn French and Mathematics. He was impatient to get on and became an apprentice wine waiter.

When she read this, Vilma looked up at her father and suggested,

“This is a fascinating account of César Ritz’s life in Le Jour, Papa. I just know that you would like to read it.”

“I am not interested in waiters,” the Earl replied sullenly.

“He is much more important than that now,” Vilma replied, “although he did spend some time polishing floors, scrubbing and running up and down stairs with luggage and trays.”

“I cannot think why you don’t read something intelligent,” the Earl said as if he wanted to find fault. “Here we are in Paris, the most civilised City in the world, and you spend your time drooling over some obscure hotel proprietor.”

Vilma laughed.

She knew that her father always took the opposite view to herself, which was one of the reasons that always made their conversations sparkle and stimulate.

They were always antagonists, straining their brains to the utmost capacity to defeat each other in argument.

“Well, all I can say,” she said, “is that I would so love to visit the Ritz Hotel and see how different it is from anywhere else we may have stayed. Imagine it, Papa, no heavy tapestries, plushes or velvet because Monsieur Ritz says ‘they collect the dust’.”

“I should think the place looks like an Army Barracks!” the Earl growled.

His daughter did not answer as she was reading on.

Then she exclaimed,

“What do you think it says here?”

There was no reply from her father, but she continued,

“The comfortable dining room chairs were only just delivered the day before yesterday and when they were Monsieur Ritz found that the tables were too high.”

“They must go back to be cut down,” he cried.

“His wife agreed and he ran outside to see the van that had delivered the chairs moving away. He ran after it in the rain and shouted,

“‘Two centimetres off every table leg and they must be back in two hours’.”

“He was told that it was quite impossible, but he had his own way in the end and the tables came back. The waiters were finishing laying them as the first of the guests’ carriages arrived.”

“He should not have left it to the eleventh hour,” the Earl remarked.

“I think it is a fascinating story,” Vilma asserted. “Please, please, Papa, before we leave Paris, take me to see the Ritz Hotel.”

“And meet someone I might know there?” the Earl asked. “Certainly not! As soon as I am better, we will then go back to London and you shall dance at what balls are left in the Season.”

Vilma did not reply.

She was thinking that she must see a little of Paris before they did return to London.

She had already made a list of the places that she wanted to visit.

It started with the Louvre and ended with the Aquarium in the Bois de Boulogne.

The difficulty, of course, would be to find someone appropriate to accompany her. She knew very well that that she could not go out alone.

Because her father was determined that no one should gossip about his injuries, she had not been allowed to bring her lady’s maid with her.

She knew that it would be impossible to make Herbert leave his Master.

‘I will think of something,’ she told herself rather doubtfully and went on reading about the Ritz Hotel.

*

Later in the day the man who everybody had said was so successful with injured backs arrived at the house.

His name was Pierre Blanc.

Vilma saw him first, to explain what had happened and she spoke to him in her fluent French and made him understand how important it was that her father should be able to ride again as soon as possible.

“He is a famous rider in England,” she said, “and that is why he does not want anyone to know what has happened to him.”

“I can understand that, mademoiselle,” Pierre Blanc said, “and I promise that Monsieur will soon be well again and he will find it difficult to remember that he was ever frustrated in such an unfortunate manner.”

He spoke so confidently that Vilma was delighted.

“I hope you will make my father feel that it will be only a short time before he is well. He very much dislikes being an invalid and it makes him feel useless.”

Pierre Blanc spread out his hands.

“What man hates being ill?” he asked. “Especially when he is in Paris.”

“Now I will take you upstairs,” Vilma proposed.

“But before we do so, mademoiselle,” Pierre Blanc interrupted, “you must promise me that you will make your father follow my instructions to the letter.”

“I will try,” Vilma answered him a little doubtfully.

“The most important thing is for him to rest after I have given him a treatment,” Pierre Blanc said. “In nearly every case the patient goes straight to sleep. But if your father does not, he is to lie quietly on his back undisturbed and not be agitated by anything or anyone. Do you understand, mademoiselle?”

“Of course I do, monsieur,” Vilma replied, “and I promise you that Papa will be left very quiet with nobody and nothing to disturb him.”

“That is exactly what is required,” Pierre Blanc exclaimed. “And now, mademoiselle, I am ready to meet my patient.”

Vilma took him upstairs to the comfortable bedroom that her father was using. It was the largest in the house.

She knew, although her father would never admit it, that he had been counting the hours until Pierre Blanc arrived.

As the two men shook hands, Vilma slipped downstairs.

Now she was free and maybe she could go somewhere and see just a little, if only a very little, of the City of Paris.

She wondered whether she could ask one of the maidservants to go with her, but she had noticed that they were all middle-aged or older.

She thought that they might resent being asked to accompany her in the afternoon when they had been working all the morning.

‘I must go out – I must!’ she said to herself.

To her surprise the door then opened.

A manservant with grey hair, who she had already learnt had been with the Vicomte for thirty years, said,

“Monsieur César Ritz to see you, m’mselle.”

Vilma was so surprised that she thought for a moment that it must be a joke.

Then a short dark man came into the room.

She knew from the illustrations she had seen in the newspapers that it was indeed César Ritz himself who stood there in front of her.

There was no mistaking the high forehead, from which the hair grew back and then the drooping moustache.

It was the great hotelier in person.

She could only stare at him as he crossed the room to bow respectfully and say,

“Forgive me, mademoiselle, for disturbing you, but I have a great favour to ask. It is only just now that I have learnt that this house is not empty, as I had expected, but you and your father are staying here.”

“We arrived in Paris the day before yesterday,” Vilma explained.

“That is what the servant told me,” César Ritz replied, “and I must therefore explain to you why I am here.”

He looked worried as he spoke, as if he feared she might refuse to grant him the request that he was going to make.

“Suppose you sit down, Monsieur Ritz,” Vilma now suggested. “I have just been reading about your magnificent hotel.”

As she spoke, she indicated the nearest armchair and, as he sat down, César Ritz said,

“I was fortunate, so very fortunate. As you can imagine, mademoiselle, there was always the fear at the back of my mind that those I had counted on would not come. But they did! Almost every one of them. But in doing so, they have created for me a problem.”

“A problem?” Vilma asked.

“That is the reason why I am here,” he replied.

“Please tell me what it is and how I can help you,” Vilma prompted him.

César Ritz drew in his breath before he began,

“I never dreamt and I was never presumptuous enough to imagine that every room would be booked so soon. But, believe it or not, mademoiselle, the hotel is already full!”

Vilma thought that he sounded like an excited schoolboys and she smiled as she replied,

“I am so glad, monsieur. It must be a great satisfaction for you, after working so hard, to know that you are really appreciated.”

“I am indeed very grateful,” César Ritz said. “But there is one deficiency and I swore to myself that when I opened the Ritz it would be as perfect as it was possible for any hotel to be.”

“That is what I have been reading in the newspapers,” Vilma said, “and I am sure that it is really perfect.”

“There is, unfortunately, one flaw.”

“What can that be?” Vilma asked him.

“For the chandeliers in the bedrooms, I used as a model one in this house. It was in fact the Vicomte de Servaiss who told me that he considered it one of the most attractive designs that he had ever seen.”

“So you had it copied,” Vilma queried.

“Exactly!” César Ritz replied. “But, while they were being installed, one was broken.”

“How tiresome!” Vilma exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed,” César Ritz agreed, “but it would not have mattered so much if the room did not have to be occupied tonight by the Comte Gaston de Forêt, a very important person in Paris.”

He paused for a short while and then he continued,

“There is nowhere else that I could put him, nowhere. And there is no chandelier in his bedroom.”

He made it sound such a disaster that it was with difficulty that Vilma did not laugh.

“Then how can we help you, monsieur?” she enquired.

“I just knew when I came here,” Monsieur Ritz replied, “that the Vicomte, whom I have served for years and who has encouraged me in my ambitions, would have lent me one of the chandeliers from this house until the replacement that is being made for me is delivered.”

His voice dropped as he pleaded,

“Please, mademoiselle, please be generous and allow me to borrow one, just for the few days that must elapse before the replacement I have ordered comes from the factory in Lille.”

Vilma smiled.

“But, of course, monsieur, it will be a pleasure. I am certain that there are quite a number in the house and you can choose the one you want.”

César Ritz clasped his hands together.

“Merci, merci, mademoiselle, you are more than kind. I just cannot express my gratitude! How could I place the Comte in a room that is incomplete and with no light in the centre of its ceiling?”

Vilma rose.

“Come and see which one you require,” she suggested.

She walked towards the door and César Ritz opened it for her.

As the chandelier he required was for a bedroom, she knew that those in the Reception rooms would be too large.

She went up the stairs and opened the door of a bedroom that was not in use.

Hanging from the ceiling was an elegant chandelier that was a duplicate of the one in her room. It had a bowl-like shape with six candles suspended from it.

Looking at the ceiling, César Ritz clasped his hands together.

“That is exactly what I require, exactly what I have ordered,” he said, “except that it is not fitted for electricity, but it is quite easy to adapt it and I am sure that Monsieur le Vicomte will be delighted when I return it to him if it can be electrically lit, as most are in this house.”

“I thought how skilfully some of the chandeliers have already been adapted,” Vilma said. “At the same time the Vicomte also uses candles, which I think are more becoming.”

“You have not seen my lighting,” César Ritz replied. “I have spent hours, literally hours, of my time, mademoiselle, choosing what I sincerely believed was the most attractive colour, especially for beautiful women.”

“I read about that in a magazine,” Vilma murmured.

“Day after day,” Monsieur Ritz explained, “I worked with the electrician, trying out the effects of various colours on my wife’s complexion.”

He made a gesture with his hands before he went on,

“I finally decided that a delicate shade of apricot pink was the most becoming for her and that is what I have used throughout the hotel.”

“It sounds wonderful!” Vilma exclaimed. “I do wish I could see it.”

“Why not?” César Ritz replied. “I would be very proud to show you, mademoiselle, what I have achieved in making my dream become reality.”

He saw the expression in Vilma’s eyes and added,

“Come with me, mademoiselle, come with me now, I know you will not be surprised to learn that I have an electrician outside who will remove this chandelier so that we can take it with us.”

Vilma drew in her breath.

She knew that it was something that she should not do.

But her father must remain quiet after his treatment, so he would not know that she had left the house.

For a moment she hesitated.

Then, because the temptation was too great, she said,

“Call your electrician, monsieur, and I will put on my hat so that I can accompany you.”

“You are very gracious,” César Ritz answered.

He hurried down the stairs, moving more like a young boy than a man of his age.

The electrician was surprisingly quick in taking down the chandelier.

By the time Vilma came from her bedroom, César Ritz was waiting for her in the hall.

Outside was a very comfortable carriage drawn by two fine horses.

The electrician climbed up on the box beside the coachman, while Vilma and César Ritz sat inside.

Only as they turned into the Place Vendôme did she manage to say,

“I think you will understand, monsieur, when I say that it would be a mistake for me to meet anyone from London. My father has no wish for his friends to know that he is in Paris. He has had a slight accident and is here for special treatment.”

To emphasise what she had already said, she added,

“He is not allowed any visitors and it would be most embarrassing for me to have to turn people away.”

“Yes, of course, mademoiselle, I understand,” César Ritz replied. “We will not drive in to the grand entrance here in the Place Vendôme, but will enter by the back of the hotel which was my intention anyway.”

Vilma realised that this was because he did not want anyone to know that he had been forced to borrow a chandelier for his ‘perfect’ hotel.

When she stepped out of the carriage, César Ritz hurried her up a side staircase that led to the first floor.

“I want you to see one of the best suites in the hotel,” he said, “which fortunately will not be occupied until this evening. The guests who were in it yesterday left this morning.”

Vilma was already appreciating that the passages were lofty and were painted rather than covered with wallpaper. The attractive carpet was bright but traditional in design.

César Ritz then showed her into a large suite overlooking the Place Vendôme.

Vilma was entranced by the overwhelming luxury of the hotel.

The walls of the bedrooms were bare except for large mirrors.

There were, as she had read in the newspapers, no plushes or velvet, nor were there any frills or furbelows in the curtains.

“I will not have wooden beds in the hotel,” César Ritz explained in the bedroom. “Brass is more hygienic.”

As Vilma expected, the lighting was an apricot pink and she knew that at night it would make any woman look her best.

There were built-in cupboards and the sitting room was furnished with large comfortable armchairs.

There were flowers and bowls of exotic fruit waiting for the incoming guests.

“It is lovely, monsieur, absolutely lovely!” Vilma exclaimed.

They then walked a long way down the passage until they came to the room that had no chandelier. In the other rooms they were suspended from the ceilings by silken cords.

Now in the bedroom they entered the cords were there, but no chandelier.

“I quite see why you so desperately needed the chandelier you have just borrowed from the Vicomte,” Vilma remarked.

“All thanks to you, mademoiselle,” César Ritz said gallantly. “If you had refused me, I think I should have sat down on your doorstep and wept!”

Vilma laughed.

“We could not allow you to do that, not when you are the King of all the hotels and the most acclaimed man in Paris.”

She could see how delighted César Ritz was by her compliment.

It sounded even better, she thought, when it was spoken in French rather than in English.

It was then, as they were talking, that the electrician came in with a folding ladder.

He set it up in the centre of the room.

Following him came two servants carrying the chandelier and they held it up so that the electrician could fasten it to the silken cords.

Vilma had closely watched three electricians at home when they were wiring her father’s chandeliers and she thought that this man was more skilful at his job than the Englishmen had been.

She was still watching when someone came into the room to whisper in César Ritz’s ear.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he sighed, “if I leave you, but I am now needed elsewhere in the hotel. I will be back as soon as I possibly can.”

“Of course, monsieur,” Vilma agreed. “I will be quite happy here.”

He bowed to her and then hurried away.

Vilma continued to watch the electrician at work.

Having finished connecting the wiring to the lamp holders, he climbed down the ladder and said,

“I have to fetch the lightbulbs now, m’mselle.”

When he had gone, Vilma looked up at the chandelier.

She saw that there were several dirty marks on the bowl from the hands of those who had carried it up the stairs.

She was quite sure that they would displease César Ritz when he returned to the room.

What he had said to her and what she had read about in magazines told her that he was a fanatic where cleanliness was concerned.

So she decided that she would remove the marks herself.

She looked around.

The door to the bathroom was open and she found a towelling flannel there, put ready for the expected guests.

She thought that the bathroom was very elegant with a profusion of mirrors and the bath taps and those on the basin were of gold and she felt that this was unnecessarily extravagant.

She went back into the bedroom.

She was just about to climb up the ladder, when she realised that her hat would get in her way.

Taking it off, she set it down on a chair with her gloves bedside it before she climbed up the ladder.

She rubbed the marks gently and was relieved to find that they came off quite easily.

She found also that the chandelier was rather dusty.

She was cleaning the inside of the bowl when a voice from below her came in French,

“What pretty angel has just come down from Heaven to illuminate me just when I most need it?”

Vilma looked down and saw that there was a very smartly dressed man staring up at her.

He was obviously a Frenchman and she guessed that he was between thirty and forty.

But the expression in his eyes and the way he spoke made her feel a little nervous.

“I-I was just dusting the chandelier, monsieur,” she replied.

“As doubtless you polish the stars so that they gleam in the sky,” he answered.

Again the way he spoke made Vilma feel somewhat embarrassed and she looked away from him and said quickly,

“I-I have finished – now.”

“Then I will help you down to earth,” the Frenchman offered whilst moving nearer.

He put up his arms as if to take hold of her, but Vilma said hurriedly,

“No, no – I need no help thank you. Just leave me – alone.”

“That is something, my lovely angel, I have no intention of doing,” the Frenchman said. “You have come from the sky into my room and why should I refuse a gift from the Gods?”

Vilma knew that he must be the Comte Gaston de Forêt.

He put out his hand as he spoke and she felt him touch her ankle.

She knew that, if she moved off the ladder, he would then take her in his arms and there would be little that she could do to prevent him.

“Please – leave me alone, monsieur,” she said angrily, “you have no – right to – touch me.”

“Let me explain to you what right I have,” the Comte replied. “I want, more than I have wanted anything for a long time, to hold you close to me.”

The assured way he spoke began to frighten Vilma.

She knew that, if she moved one step down, he would be able to put his arms around her.

She was now feeling terrified that, if he did so, he would then try to kiss her.

She had never been in such a situation before and so she had no idea of what to do next.

“Go away, monsieur,” she flashed. “I wish to descend from this ladder and – leave the – room.”

“That is something I shall certainly stop you from doing,” the Comte replied.

His fingers tightened on her ankle and she thought that he was going to pull her down towards him.

Holding tightly to the top of the ladder, Vilma screamed,

“Help! Help!”

Even as she did so, she knew that it was too soon for either the electrician or Monsieur Ritz to return.

She felt the Frenchman’s hand move a little further up her leg and screamed again.

“Help me, somebody! Oh, please – help me!”

Because she was so frightened, she spoke instinctively in English.

To her surprise and utter relief, she then heard an English voice asking,

“Can it be possible that one of my countrywomen is in trouble?”

A man appeared in the doorway and the Comte then turned round.

“Oh, it is you, Lynworth!” he exclaimed. “What the Hell are you doing here?”

“I am obviously coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress,” the newcomer replied. “I suppose, de Forêt, you are up to your old tricks again.”

“This is my room and you have no right to come into it,” the Comte retorted.

He was looking angrily at the newcomer.

Vilma then slipped down the ladder and went round to the other side of it from where the Frenchman was standing.

Then she ran towards the door, fearing that he might stop her from reaching it.

She could not pass through it because the tall broad-shouldered Englishman was standing there.

He put out his hand and took hers, saying,

“You are quite safe now. Like the White Knight, I have saved you from the Dragon!”

He spoke provocatively and his eyes were twinkling as he looked at the Comte.

“One day I will get even with you, Lynworth,” he threatened disagreeably.

“I doubt it, Monsieur le Comte,” the Englishman replied, “but, of course, I am ready to accept any challenge you wish to offer me.”

He turned away as he spoke and, taking Vilma by the arm, drew her down the passage.

Only when they had gone a little way from the Comte’s room did Vilma say,

“My hat! I have left my hat behind in his room.”

The Englishman drew a key from his pocket and opened a door on the other side of the corridor.

“Wait in here while I fetch it,” he suggested. “You will be quite safe.”

Without demur Vilma then walked into the room.

Saying no more, he closed the door behind her and she heard the key turn in the lock.

She found herself in an attractive sitting room not unlike the one adjoining the Comte’s bedroom.

She was a little breathless from fear and consternation at what had happened and she told herself severely that it was her own fault.

She should not have come to the Ritz Hotel in the first place.

It had been a great mistake to allow herself to be left alone and so enable the Comte to come into the room and assume that she was one of Cesar Ritz’s hotel staff.

‘Papa would be furious,’ she surmised.

She felt extremely grateful to the Englishman who had rescued her.

She then heard the key turn again in the lock of the door behind her.

A moment later he came into the sitting room with her hat in his hand.

“Your admirer,” he said with laughter in his voice, “wished to keep it as a souvenir, but I managed to take it from him.”

“Thank you – oh – thank – you!” Vilma cried. “I am so grateful to you for – saving me.”