confessed Ruth charmingly. “Didn't Christopher Columbus discover the Indians living in huts standing in water and decide it reminded him of Venice?”
Patrick dropped ash from the end of his cigar into the bronze ashtray in the centre of the table. “Well, you've got the facts there, but they're somewhat confused. Columbus did discover Venezuela as you've said, but it was another Spaniard, Alonso de Ojeda, who found Lake Maracaibo and the Indian huts standing in water. He called it Little Venice – Venezuela, as it is today. Did you know that the first Spanish settlement in the whole of South America was on an island off the coast of Venezuela called Cubagua?”
“Cubagua!” Ruth repeated the name slowly. “What a nice sound that has.”
Patrick shrugged. “It's principally a pearling centre now.”
“Do men actually dive for pearls?” she asked, her voice betraying her excitement.
“Well, it's not quite as simple as that,” he replied dryly.
“And where you work – what is it like there? Do you have tropical vegetation and rain forests?” Her eyes were wide.
He drew on his cheroot. “There are rain forests at the southern end of the lake,” he conceded tolerantly. “But they're not the romantic things you seem to imagine them to be. They stand in areas usually with a rainfall in excess of eighty inches with no apparent dry season, and humid temperatures up to ninety degrees.”
Ruth sighed, resting her chin on her knuckles. “But you live there,” she pointed out.
“Well, not actually in the rain forest,” he remarked, with a smile. “Part of the time I work in Maracaibo itself, which is Venezuela's second largest city, and they have skyscrapers and office blocks and the usual kind of traffic problems found the world over.”
“It sounds fascinating!” Ruth was enthralled. For all she had travelled all over the continent and visited the United States with her father, the places Patrick Hardy was talking about belonged to an entirely different kind of civilisation. She felt she could have gone on listening to his attractive voice all day.
Patrick studied her captivated face for several minutes after he had finished speaking, causing Ruth no small sense of consternation at the upheaval inside her he could so unknowingly provoke, and then he rose abruptly to his feet and leant across the table to press out the stub of his cheroot.
“You live in London, Miss Farrell?”
Ruth dropped her hands into her lap. “Yes, that's right.”
“And will you be leaving today?”
“After lunch, I expect. Julie and I are supposed to be going riding this morning. Do you ride, Mr. Hardy?”
“I have done,” he agreed, flexing his back muscles.
“Then why don't you join us?” she asked, pushing back her chair and standing up.
Although she was a tall girl, he was quite a bit taller than she was and consequently she had to look up to his face. He seemed to be considering what she had said quite seriously, and a ripple of anticipation slid down her spine.
“I don't somehow think Julie would second your suggestion,” he remarked at last, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Does that matter?” Ruth tipped her head on one side in a purely provocative gesture.
“I think it might,” he commented dryly, turning aside from her. “Tell me: has the winter been very hard so far? I was looking forward to snow-swept fields and frozen rivers. You've no idea how appealing such things can be in a tropical climate.”
Ruth clenched her fists. He had the unconscious knack of making her feel terribly youthful and inexperienced. She couldn't understand why. The men she knew, young and old alike, had all seemed to find her attention something to be desired, whereas Patrick Hardy treated her with complete indifference. Why? Had his years in Venezuela affected him to such an extent that he no longer required any form of feminine companionship? Julie had said he was devoted to his work. Was she right? Or was there some woman back in – where was it he said he worked? – Maracaibo? – waiting for him? Ruth realised she found that idea totally unacceptable …
Hooking her thumbs into the low belt of her trousers, she scuffed her heels impatiently and he turned back to her.
“What's wrong? Are you offended because I refused your invitation?”
Ruth's dark lashes lifted. “And if I was?”
He tugged absently at his ear. “Then I should apologise, of course.”
She still had the distinct impression he was mocking her, and it was infuriating. But before she had chance to reply the maid returned to clear the table. Turning to her, Ruth said: “Do you know if Miss Julie is up yet? We're going riding.”
The maid put her tray down on the table. “I took Miss Julie's breakfast in to her half an hour ago, miss, but she wasn't at all well. She said she had a terrible headache after the party last evening. I'm sure I don't know whether she'll be fit to go riding.”
Ruth sighed in exasperation, and without a backward glance she marched out of the morning room and took the stairs two at a time. At Julie's door she composed herself for a moment before tapping lightly on the panels, and at Julie's: “Come in!” she entered, closing the door behind her.
“Oh, hello, Ruth,” Julie exclaimed, putting a hand across her forehead. “I hoped you'd come. I feel awful!”
“Yes, so the maid just informed me. What's wrong? Didn't you sleep well?”
“Oh, yes, I slept all right. It's just this terrible migraine of mine. You know I get it from time to time. Well, I think all the noise last night must have started it off again.”
“I see.” Ruth thrust her hands into her trousers’ pockets. “So you won't be going riding.”
“I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, Ruth.”
“Don't be silly. It's not your fault. But it's a glorious morning. Frosty, of course, but the sun's breaking through.”
“Well, you go if you want to,” suggested Julie. “Ask Mike to join you. He could use my horse.”
“I doubt whether Mike is even awake yet,” replied Ruth dampeningly. “Don't concern yourself, Julie. I shan't go. I might even decide to drive back to town after all.”
“This morning?”
“Why not? There's not much else to do.”
“Oh, dear!” Julie propped herself up on her elbows. “Don't do that, Ruth. I've had my tablets and I'll probably be fine by lunchtime. Why don't you stay over until tomorrow? You've got no particular reason to get back to town, have you? You can always telephone your father.”
Ruth hesitated. “I don't know,” she began.
“Well, think about it,” appealed Julie. “Please. And don't go before lunch whatever you decide.”
“All right.” Ruth smiled at her friend's concerned
