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Her
mother
was
pleased
that
she
had
done
so
accurately
what
she
was
told
to
do
,
but
she
still
wanted
to
launch
her
out
and
away
.
Mrs
.
Speers
was
fresh
in
appearance
but
she
was
tired
;
death
beds
make
people
tired
indeed
and
she
had
watched
beside
a
couple
.
Feeling
good
from
the
rosy
wine
at
lunch
,
Nicole
Diver
folded
her
arms
high
enough
for
the
artificial
camellia
on
her
shoulder
to
touch
her
cheek
,
and
went
out
into
her
lovely
grassless
garden
.
The
garden
was
bounded
on
one
side
by
the
house
,
from
which
it
flowed
and
into
which
it
ran
,
on
two
sides
by
the
old
village
,
and
on
the
last
by
the
cliff
falling
by
ledges
to
the
sea
.
Along
the
walls
on
the
village
side
all
was
dusty
,
the
wriggling
vines
,
the
lemon
and
eucalyptus
trees
,
the
casual
wheel
-
barrow
,
left
only
a
moment
since
,
but
already
grown
into
the
path
,
atrophied
and
faintly
rotten
.
Nicole
was
invariably
somewhat
surprised
that
by
turning
in
the
other
direction
past
a
bed
of
peonies
she
walked
into
an
area
so
green
and
cool
that
the
leaves
and
petals
were
curled
with
tender
damp
.
Knotted
at
her
throat
she
wore
a
lilac
scarf
that
even
in
the
achromatic
sunshine
cast
its
color
up
to
her
face
and
down
around
her
moving
feet
in
a
lilac
shadow
.
Her
face
was
hard
,
almost
stern
,
save
for
the
soft
gleam
of
piteous
doubt
that
looked
from
her
green
eyes
.
Her
once
fair
hair
had
darkened
,
but
she
was
lovelier
now
at
twenty
-
four
than
she
had
been
at
eighteen
,
when
her
hair
was
brighter
than
she
.
Following
a
walk
marked
by
an
intangible
mist
of
bloom
that
followed
the
white
border
stones
she
came
to
a
space
overlooking
the
sea
where
there
were
lanterns
asleep
in
the
fig
trees
and
a
big
table
and
wicker
chairs
and
a
great
market
umbrella
from
Sienna
,
all
gathered
about
an
enormous
pine
,
the
biggest
tree
in
the
garden
.
She
paused
there
a
moment
,
looking
absently
at
a
growth
of
nasturtiums
and
iris
tangled
at
its
foot
,
as
though
sprung
from
a
careless
handful
of
seeds
,
listening
to
the
plaints
and
accusations
of
some
nursery
squabble
in
the
house
.
When
this
died
away
on
the
summer
air
,
she
walked
on
,
between
kaleidoscopic
peonies
massed
in
pink
clouds
,
black
and
brown
tulips
and
fragile
mauve
-
stemmed
roses
,
transparent
like
sugar
flowers
in
a
confectioner
’
s
window
—
until
,
as
if
the
scherzo
of
color
could
reach
no
further
intensity
,
it
broke
off
suddenly
in
mid
-
air
,
and
moist
steps
went
down
to
a
level
five
feet
below
.
Here
there
was
a
well
with
the
boarding
around
it
dank
and
slippery
even
on
the
brightest
days
.
She
went
up
the
stairs
on
the
other
side
and
into
the
vegetable
garden
;
she
walked
rather
quickly
;
she
liked
to
be
active
,
though
at
times
she
gave
an
impression
of
repose
that
was
at
once
static
and
evocative
.
This
was
because
she
knew
few
words
and
believed
in
none
,
and
in
the
world
she
was
rather
silent
,
contributing
just
her
share
of
urbane
humor
with
a
precision
that
approached
meagreness
.
But
at
the
moment
when
strangers
tended
to
grow
uncomfortable
in
the
presence
of
this
economy
she
would
seize
the
topic
and
rush
off
with
it
,
feverishly
surprised
with
herself
—
then
bring
it
back
and
relinquish
it
abruptly
,
almost
timidly
,
like
an
obedient
retriever
,
having
been
adequate
and
something
more
.
As
she
stood
in
the
fuzzy
green
light
of
the
vegetable
garden
,
Dick
crossed
the
path
ahead
of
her
going
to
his
work
house
.
Nicole
waited
silently
till
he
had
passed
;
then
she
went
on
through
lines
of
prospective
salads
to
a
little
menagerie
where
pigeons
and
rabbits
and
a
parrot
made
a
medley
of
insolent
noises
at
her
.
Descending
to
another
ledge
she
reached
a
low
,
curved
wall
and
looked
down
seven
hundred
feet
to
the
Mediterranean
Sea
.
She
stood
in
the
ancient
hill
village
of
Tarmes
.
The
villa
and
its
grounds
were
made
out
of
a
row
of
peasant
dwellings
that
abutted
on
the
cliff
—
five
small
houses
had
been
combined
to
make
the
house
and
four
destroyed
to
make
the
garden
.
The
exterior
walls
were
untouched
so
that
from
the
road
far
below
it
was
indistinguishable
from
the
violet
gray
mass
of
the
town
.
