Justine stared at her. "A lovely figure — me? But I'm all arms and legs."
Laura Marnier smiled. "You aren't, you know. With a different hair-do, and some make-up, and a bit more confidence in yourself, you could be a knock-out. I spotted your potential the minute you walked into the shop."
Justine remembered how, that morning when he had caught her swimming in the nude, Julien had also remarked that a chignon was too severe for her. She remembered, too, what a difference it had made to her face when Diane had painted her mouth with lipstick. Even David had told her she could be more attractive, if she wished.
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I've offended you," Laura Marnier said contritely.
"No, no, you haven't," Justine assured her. "Actually, I've always wanted to have my hair cut, but — but I couldn't pluck up the courage." She paused, a queer tingle of excitement running through her. "I'll have it done now — this morning. Where can I go? Is there a hairdresser near here?"
Mrs. Marnier seemed slightly taken aback by this instant acceptance of her suggestion. "Yes, there are several, but I don't know if they could take you right away. I could ring up the the place I go to, and ask them, if you like?"
Half an hour later, with her plait irreparably severed, and her remaining hair hanging in a ragged bob, Justine began to regret her impetuosity.
The hairdresser, a suave young man in an Italian suit, saw the dismay in her eyes, and said reassuringly, "Don't worry, mademoiselle. You won't look like this when I have finished." He dropped the cut braid on to her lap. "If you wish, with this we can make you a postiche for evening wear."
When she was released from the dryer, the stylist suggested that she should close her eyes until he had completed the brush out. Justine obeyed, secretly dreading the moment when he would tell her to open them.
At last, after a seemingly interminable interval of brushing and combing, she heard the hiss of a lacquer spray and knew that he had completed his handiwork.
"There — it is done. Does it please you?" he asked, tapping her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and, for nearly a minute, gazed at her reflection in silence.
"You don't like it so?" he asked, frowning.
"I—I can't believe it," she whispered, in a wondering voice. "I look ... so different."
He stood behind her and with the blunt end of a hairpin made a fractional adjustment to the placing of one soft shining curl. "It should be cut often to keep the shape, mademoiselle," he said, well pleased with her reaction.
Not very coherently, Justine thanked him, and—as Mrs. Marnier had told her to—slipped a generous tip into his pocket.
"I feel like a doll which has had a new head put on," she said dazedly, to the receptionist
The girl laughed. "Perhaps a new lipstick to go with the new coiffure?" she suggested.
It was noon, and the shops were closing and would not re-open until two or even three o'clock, when Justine hurried back to Laura Marnier's premises, to show her her transformation, and pick up the lemon dress.
Mrs. Marnier saw her coming, and came out to meet her. "There, what did I tell you? You look lovely," she exclaimed delightedly.
In the shop, Justine said, "I think I've gone a little mad. I've bought a lipstick, and mascara, and some scent — and now I'm going to buy that white dress, it is my size, isn't it?" She went to the rail, and took it down, and held it against herself. "I don't care what it costs. I must have it. I want to wear it for lunch today. Oh, dear, what about shoes? These sandals won't do, and now the shops have all closed."
"Monsieur Césari, just down the street, sells shoes. He'll open up for you, if I come and explain the situation," said Airs. Marnier. "But are you sure you can stand all this extravagance, my dear?
Justine turned and looked at her and, for a moment, the sparkle went out of her eyes. "The last time I had anything pretty was when I was twelve and my aunt sent me one of my cousin's dresses," she said quietly. "I think I deserve a little extravagance."
It was exactly one o'clock when, wearing the white dress and her first pair of high-heeled shoes, she climbed into a taxi and waved goodbye to her new friend. As well as the two dresses and the shoes, she had also bought nylons, a French suspender belt patterned with cornflowers and butterflies, and a strapless bra to wear under the crochet bodice. In all, she had spent nearly three hundred francs, or about twenty-one pounds.
As the taxi approached the harbour, her excitement mounted to such a pitch that her hands began to tremble. She locked them tightly together, and took several slow deep breaths.
How surprised they would be when they saw her. What would they say? What would he say?
When Kalliste came into view, she saw that Julien was talking to the seaman on gangway watch. As the taxi came to a halt a few yards away from them, he hurried towards the nearside.
"Justine! Where have you been? You're late. We've been worried about you," he said, a shade crossly, as he opened the rear door.
"I'm sorry," she said, smiling at him. The young man's jaw dropped, and he took an involuntary step backwards.
"Diable! What have you done? I would not have known you. You are — dazzlingI" he blurted, stupefied.
A thrill of exaltation went through her. Would David also be dazzled? She turned to retrieve her parcels, and to
pay and thank the taxi-driver.
At the head of the gangway, she said, "I'll just take these down to my cabin. Where are the others?"
"They are having drinks in the saloon. David has some guests for lunch today. They are, I think, business associates," Julien said, still looking stunned.
A few hours ago, she would have been daunted. Now she felt equal to anything. "Oh, I see . . . well, don't wait for me. I'll join you there in a minute or two. And, Julien, don't say anything, will you? I want to surprise the others too."
In her stateroom, she cast her parcels on to a chair, and rushed to wash her hands. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, and she felt slightly giddy, as if she had drunk too much wine. Careful not to spot her skirt, she dried her hands and hurried back to the bedroom for a final look at herself in the glass-panelled doors of the wardrobe.
The mirrors reflected a dream which she had thought could never come true—a tall, graceful, fashionable girl with shining grey eyes and short, loosely curling hair brushed up from the nape of her neck and coaxed into airy tendrils across her forehead.
'Oh, please, please make him like me,' she whispered aloud.
The door of the saloon was open, and Julien was hovering nearby as she paused on the threshold. There were four strangers present; two men, who were talking to David, and two women, conversing with Diane.
As David rose and came towards her, Justine's heart seemed to stop. It took him about three seconds to cross the room, and to appraise every detail of her appearance. If he was astonished, he did not show it. She could not tell what he felt.
"I'm sorry I'm a little late," she murmured huskily, as he reached her.
For a moment longer, his expression remained unreadable. Then, slowly, he arched one black eyebrow.
"Well, well . . . your little white rosebud has burst into bloom," he said, with a brief glance at Julien.
He looked down at Justine again. But what she saw in his face was not what she wanted to see. The curl of his mouth was more like a sneer than a smile, and his eyes were cold and indifferent.
In an undertone the others would not hear, he added sarcastically, "I realise you have been at pains to make a dramatic entrance, Justine, but it would have been equally effective, and certainly more courteous, had you also contrived to be punctual."
CHAPTER FOUR
THE luncheon party went on till after three o'clock, the meal being served in a formal, air-conditioned dining-room with high-backed antique Spanish chairs surrounding a dark green marble table.
When at last David escorted his guests on deck, leaving the three younger people alone in the saloon, Diane smothered a yawn.
"Yes—typical provincials," Julien agreed, with a grimace.
Justine said nothing. She had liked the short stocky men, and their ample, tightly corseted wives. Although they had been smartly dressed in black — each with a diamond clip, a large and expensive bag, and a fussy hat — the two Corsican matrons had had an engagingly homely quality. She sensed that they had not always been of the bourgeoisie, and that they were proud of their humbler origins. But, even if she had not liked them, she would have felt it was a breach of good manners to criticise fellow guests.
Julien left the chair in which he had been lounging, and came over to join her on the sofa. "There is a plage across the bay where the tourists do not go. You will come with me to swim there?" he asked, smiling.
"Not today, Julien. Father was sleeping when I went to the hospital this morning, so I haven't seen him yet. There's a chance I may have to look in later."
"But we will come back for dinner," he persisted. "Surely, if it is necessary, you can visit the hospital this evening?"
Justine shook her head. "I wouldn't feel comfortable, going off to enjoy myself so soon after the operation. Perhaps another day, when Father is beginning to get better." She glanced at his sister. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go to my room now. I want to write to my aunt in England."
Diane crushed out her cigarette. "I'll come with you Justine. I have a slight headache. I think I'll rest for an hour."
However, before retiring to her quarters, she asked if she might see where the younger girl was sleeping.
"Yes, certainly," Justine said politely, though she was longing to be alone.
Diane had been put in the lilac stateroom where the two girls had washed their hands on the night of Professor Field's collapse. When she saw the even greater opulence of the English girl's accommodation, her delicate eyebrows lifted.
"Charmant!" she commented, strolling into the centre of the room, and looking about her at the furniture and other appointments. Her gaze came to rest on the wide bed with its velvet draperies and rose silk capitonné headboard. "I wonder who was the last person to sleep there?" she said dryly. "Someone very different from yourself, one imagines."
She saw that Justine did not understand what she meant, and a slight smile touched her beautiful mouth. "You think because David is not married there are no women in his life?" she asked cynically. "You are very innocent, petite. This room is part of his private suite. There is your bathroom — yes? And that other door is to his dressing-room."
Justine had noticed the second door, but had taken it for a cupboard, probably a linen closet.
"Tell me, is it for David or for my brother that you have had your hair cut and bought this new dress?" Diane asked, seating herself in the chair where David had sat the night before last.
The question caught Justine off guard. "I—I don't understand. I did it for myself. Why should they have anything to do with it?"
Diane said gently, "When a woman changes her hair and buys new clothes, it is always for a man, ma chère. If it is Julien you wish to please ... eh bien, you are of an age, it is natural and very suitable. But if it is David — " She frowned, and shook her head.
"Well, it isn't," Justine answered shortly. "I may be naive, but I'm not a complete fool."
"Forgive me — I did not mean to offend you," the older girl said soothingly. "It is merely that I would not like you to be hurt. What will your father say when he sees how you have changed yourself? He will be angry with you?"
"I expect so," Justine said flatly.
At last Diane went away. Justine closed the door, slipped off the high-heeled sandals, and went to sit on the cushioned windowseat below the central port. It was nearly four o'clock, but it did not seem like three hours since that humiliating moment when David had rebuked her for being late. The hurt was still as raw as if it had happened only a few moments ago.
It might have been a little more bearable if she had felt the reproof was deserved. It was not as if they had all been kept waiting for her. It had been at least another twenty minutes before the chief steward had announced luncheon. Come to that, she was a guest herself, and surely it wasn't usual to reprimand guests, however unpunctual they were? No, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that it was not her lateness which had made him speak to her so crushingly. He had had some other reason. But what? He couldn't have been angry about her dress and her hair. It didn't make sense.
At five, Battista brought her tea and sandwiches. Feeling that she couldn't face dining on deck with the others, Justine asked him if he would tell Monsieur and Madame that she was very tired and was going to have an early night.
When he had gone, she changed her white dress for the inexpensive yellow one, and took a cup of tea to the writing desk. But, after she had written Dear Aunt Helen on a sheet of the expensive die-stamped paper in the shagreen blotter, she sat back and gazed at the picture on the wall in front of her. It was a Monet; an exquisite painting of a river in the early morning sun, with the banks still shadowed by the blue-green reflections of willows. She was still gazing at it, fascinated by the pearly transparency of the dawn sky, and the subtle play of light on the quiet water, when there was a knock on the door.
Justine started and tensed, for there was only one person on board who would rap in that imperative way. But, before she could think of an excuse to refuse him admission, David opened the door and walked in on her.
"Battista tells me you don't wish to dine with us," he said briskly. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm perfectly well, thank you. I — I thought it would be a good idea to go to bed early, that's all," she answered evenly. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Not in the least — if that's your real reason," he said, on a sceptical note.
Justine averted her face. "Well, of course it is. What other reason could there be?"
"Hurt feelings," he suggested.
Her fingers tightened on the pen she was holding. "Hurt feelings? I don't understand?"
"I fancy I was a little hard on you before lunch. I spoiled your big moment. Not unnaturally, you're piqued." He strolled across the room to where she was sitting, and she felt him touch one of the short curls at the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry, little one. I didn't mean to take the wind out of your sails."
"You didn't," she retorted lightly. "I suppose you might have done if I'd bought that dress and had my hair done especially for your benefit." She stood up and faced him, forcing herself to smile straight into his eyes. "Julien told me I looked dazzling,'" she added cheerfully.
It was the first time in her life that she had ever put on an act, and it surprised her to find how easily it could be done.
"I see," he said dryly. "Did you believe him?"
She shrugged, and moved away. "Oh, no, I knew he was exaggerating. But he obviously thought I looked nice. Actually, it was he who suggested this." She indicated her hair.
"So you are not as indifferent to him as you would have had me believe," he said keenly.
"I never said I was indifferent. I said I wasn't likely to lose my head over him."
His lean face hardened suddenly. "You won't get the chance, my girl," he informed her dampingly.
"What do you mean?"
"If I see any signs of it happening, I shall put a stop to it," he said incisively.
"I don't really see what you can do about it," she answered airily. "I am over twenty-one, you know."
"Physically — yes. Emotionally, you're still in your teens." He walked towards her until they were only a yard apart. "Let me give you a piece of advice. It takes more than high heels and lipstick to change a girl into a woman. You aren't the type to take love lightly, and your common sense must tell you that anything else is out of the question."
Justine's chin lifted, and a sparkle lit her clear grey eyes. "Diane doesn't agree with you," she said coolly. "She thinks my friendship with Julien is very suitable.
In fact, she's just been warning me not to lose my heart to you."
This was more than she had meant to say and, as soon as the words were, out, she could have bitten off her tongue.
His tone, when he spoke, was equally ambiguous. "Has she indeed? And what did you say to that suggestion?"
Under his enigmatic scrutiny, Justine felt her aplomb beginning to slip a little.
"I told her what I've told you — that I'm not in danger of losing it to anyone. I can't think why you should both suppose that I am. I haven't suddenly changed my whole personality, you know."
"In that case, it's a little difficult to see why you've been at such pains to change your appearance," he said, with a quizzical gleam. "One doesn't usually bait a hook if one has no intention of fishing."
Her colour deepened, but she managed not to look away "Yes, Diane said that too," she answered evenly. "But-" She stopped, interrupted by another knock at the door. "Yes, come in."
One of the stewards appeared, and spoke to his employer in their own language.
David listened, nodded, and turned to Justine. "I'm sorry, I'm wanted by Marseilles. We'll have to pursue this most interesting discussion another time." He gave her a rather Machiavellian smile. "Enjoy your early night."
And then he was gone.
On the way to the hospital next morning, Justine bought a cotton kerchief to hide her shorn head from her father. It was not cowardice which drove her to this deceit. Clearly, any agitation, so soon after the operation, would be very bad for him, and somehow she must try to postpone the inevitable row until he was stronger.
When she arrived at the hospital, she found that he had been moved from the public ward to a side ward. The Sister told her that he was still very weak, but that already he was demanding to know when he would be discharged, and worrying about his work on Pisano.
"Perhaps you can convince him that he must not worry, mademoiselle," she said earnestly. "To fret will only delay his recovery. Please do what you can to set his mind at rest."
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