style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Really, I think I’ll go to bed,’ said Cornelia. ‘It’s getting very late.’
‘You can’t go to bed yet,’ Jacqueline declared. ‘I forbid you to. Tell me about yourself.’
‘Well – I don’t know – there isn’t much to tell,’ Cornelia faltered. ‘I’ve just lived at home and I haven’t been around much. This is my first trip to Europe. I’m just loving every minute of it.’
Jacqueline laughed.
‘You’re a happy sort of person, aren’t you? God, I’d like to be you.’
‘Oh, would you? But I mean – I’m sure-’
Cornelia felt flustered. Undoubtedly Miss de Bellefort was drinking too much. That wasn’t exactly a novelty to Cornelia. She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years. But there was something else… Jacqueline de Bellefort was talking to her – was looking at her – and yet, Cornelia felt, it was as though, somehow, she was talking to someone else…
But there were only two other people in the room, Mr Fanthorp and Mr Doyle. Mr Fanthorp seemed quite absorbed in his book. Mr Doyle was looking rather odd – a queer sort of watchful look on his face.
Jacqueline said again:
‘Tell me all about yourself.’
Always obedient, Cornelia tried to comply. She talked, rather heavily, going into unnecessary small details about her daily life. She was so unused to being the talker. Her role was so constantly that of the listener. And yet Miss de Bellefort seemed to want to know. When Cornelia faltered to a standstill, the other girl was quick to prompt her.
‘Go on – tell me more.’
And so Cornelia went on (‘Of course, Mother’s very delicate – some days she touches nothing but cereals-’) unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girl’s seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasn’t she, somehow, listening to something else – or, perhaps, for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasn’t there someone else, sitting in the room…?
‘And of course we get very good art classes, and last winter I had a course of-’
(How late was it? Surely very late. She had been talking and talking. If only something definite would happen…)
And immediately, as though in answer to the wish, something did happen. Only, at that moment, it seemed very natural.
Jacqueline turned her head and spoke to Simon Doyle.
‘Ring the bell, Simon. I want another drink.’
Simon Doyle looked up from his magazine and said quietly:
‘The stewards have gone to bed. It’s after midnight.’
‘I tell you I want another drink.’
Simon said: ‘You’ve had quite enough to drink, Jackie.’
She swung round at him.
‘What damned business is it of yours?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘None.’
She watched him for a minute or two. Then she said:
‘What’s the matter, Simon? Are you afraid?’
Simon did not answer. Rather elaborately he picked up his magazine again.
Cornelia murmured:
‘Oh, dear – as late as that – I-must-’
She began to fumble, dropped a thimble…
Jacqueline said: ‘Don’t go to bed. I’d like another woman here – to support me.’ She began to laugh again. ‘Do you know what Simon over there is afraid of? He’s afraid I’m going to tell you the story of my life.’
‘Oh – er-’ Cornelia spluttered a little.
Jacqueline said clearly:
‘You see, he and I were once engaged.’
‘Oh, really?’
Cornelia was the prey of conflicting emotions. She was deeply embarrassed but at the same time pleasurably thrilled. How – how black Simon Doyle was looking.
‘Yes, it’s a very sad story,’ said Jacqueline; her soft voice was low and mocking. ‘He treated me rather badly, didn’t you, Simon?’
Simon Doyle said brutally: ‘Go to bed, Jackie. You’re drunk.’
‘If you’re embarrassed, Simon dear, you’d better leave the room.’
Simon Doyle looked at her. The hand that held the magazine shook a little, but he spoke bluntly.
‘I’m staying,’ he said.
Cornelia murmured for the third time, ‘I really must – it’s so late-’
‘You’re not to go,’ said Jacqueline. Her hand shot out and held the other girl in her chair. ‘You’re to stay and hear what I’ve go to say.’
‘Jackie,’ said Simon sharply, ‘you’re making a fool of yourself! For God’s sake, go to bed.’
Jacqueline sat up suddenly in her chair. Words poured from her rapidly in a soft hissing stream.
‘You’re afraid of a scene, aren’t you? That’s because you’re so English – so reticent! You want me to behave “decently”, don’t you? But I don’t care whether I behave decently or not! You’d better get out of here quickly – because I’m going to talk – a lot.’
Jim Fanthorp carefully shut his book, yawned, glanced at his watch, got up and strolled out. It was a very British and utterly unconvincing performance.
Jacqueline swung round in her chair and glared at Simon.
‘You damned fool,’ she said thickly, ‘do you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?’
Simon Doyle opened his lips, then shut them again. He sat quite still as though he were hoping that her outburst would exhaust itself if he said nothing to provoke her further.
Jacqueline’s voice came thick and blurred. It fascinated Cornelia, totally unused to naked emotions of any kind.
‘I told you,’ said Jacqueline, ‘that I’d kill you sooner than see you go to another woman… You don’t think I meant that? You’re wrong. I’ve only been – waiting! You’re my man! Do you hear? You belong to me…’
Still half did not speak. Jacqueline’s hand fumbled a moment or two on her lap. She leant forward.
‘I told you I’d kill you and I meant it…’ Her hand came up suddenly with something in it that flashed and gleamed. ‘I’ll shoot you like a dog
