BRERETON UNDERSTANDS WOMEN

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 61, Issue 292, 22 September 1941, Page 7

BRERETON UNDERSTANDS WOMEN

By HOLLOWAY HORN.

CHAPTER XH. DR. MARY TAKES A HOLIDAY. ■ After lunch, on a perfect day in July, Mary Barnwell discovered that the village of St. Jacut stands on a small headland with the sea all round it. . She began to understand, too, why the artists should “haunt" it, for the .scenery was enchanting. Beyond one elderly, spinsterish-looking fellow--1 country-woman, grimly painting in the courtyard of a white 1 house that overlooked the sea on the side remote from the hotel, however, she saw no evidence of art. She had brought her swimming suit with her, and bathed at a little place she came on unexpectedly. v “Do you get many artists here, Nanette?” she asked the waitress that evening at dinner. "Not so many nowadays, Madame. They are poor—very poor, usually. And they stay in the cottages or he little hotels in the? village." “I suppose you get famous ones here at times?” "But yes! Your great English artist, Paul Brereton, comes almost every year.” “To this hotel?” “Oh, no! He has a house on the edge of the cliff. A small house, but Madame Berger, who. looks after him, stays there all the year. I heard that even now he comes once more. She lis very lucky, that one, for he is a millionaire as well as an artist. She might be a lady. For twenty years she has lived in that little house.” From the top of the headland that evening; Dr. Barnwell watched the sunset. It was a scene of tender, moving beauty, and even though he had the world to choose from, one could understand why Paul Brereton should settle on St. Jacut. .His house—she gathered from Nanette’s description—was to her right, screened by a thick hedge from the path she had followed up the headland. He might be there even now, she realised, and, doubtless, Madame Berger Would mother, him as earnestly and devotedly as that'dour Scotswoman had done in Cheriton.

It had probably given him rather a distorted view of women, she decided and yet there was no Evidence in him of an inflated ego. And, after all, it wasn’t a simple matter to inspire devotion in such a woman as Libby Mc-

Kechnie. 1 Th© vivid colours of the sunset had died into the purpling night, and the string of islands, slung across the skyline, had been merged in the sea before she turned away. She glanced at the house as she passed. There was a light in one room ©n the ground floor and she noticed the name of the house on the gate: “L’Hermitage.” e x All things considered, Paul Brereton had chosen a remarkably pleasant place in which to be! a hermit or even to play at being one. Back aff her hotel, she sat awhile on the terrace before she went to her room. • . She contemplated herself gravely in the rather primitive-looking glass as she brushed her hair. It was' greyer than She had thought, now] she came to look at it closely. She was 35 and she had never given a great deal either of time or thought to her appearance. Thirty-five far too old to have come away on such a wildgoose chase as she had done. What did she} expect to happen? What had she hoped would happen? After she had turned out her light she went out on the balcony. The moon was coming up over the headland, dimming the stars. The night was full of the insistent surge of the SCR. j It was a lovely place, she told herself firmly. She was going to have a pleasant, restful holiday for a few days, and then would go on to Quimper. And with that assurance she went to bed. Next morning, just after eleven, Dr. Mary went to bathe. She was a powerful swimmer and struck out for a raft that was moored some hundred yards or so out at sea. She clambered on to it and lay on its swaying length. Conscious of a deep physical conten , she stayed there as the minutes passed. Suddenly the raft was shaken. A swimmer hag come up on the other side, and he, too, was clambering on to it for a rest. She .sat upright—and gasped. It was Paul Brereton. “Good gracious!” he exclaimed “Doctor!” . „ . “Of all the amazing things! she said. “What on earth brought you to bte. Jacut?”

"Or you?” "I always come. I have a cottage on

The Story of a Middle-aged Artist.

Copyright).

the headland just round the bend.” “I came here on spec,’’ she said. “Ultimately I mean to go to Quimper, but I liked the look of the hotel and stayed. I got here yesterday after a night at St. Malo.” “What are the odds .against two people meeting like this on ,a raft?” “Millions and millions to one!” she laughed. “There’s a little bathing beach tacked on to my cottage. You must bathe from there to-morrow.” “I’m not going to barge in on you, Mr Brereton. It’s very nice of you to suggest it, of course.” “Nonsense! I’m alone. There are some people coming down next weekend. Where are you staying? At the Moulin?” “Yes.” “I wish I’d known you were coming. There’s plenty of room, in the cottage, and we could have made up a party.” “Isn’t it perfect here?” she said, looking round. “You like it? I’m glad. I’m going out with one of the fishermen this afternoon, but will you dine with me?” “'That’s very, nice of you. If you’re quite sure I’m not butting in? I should hate to do that,” she added, seriously. “Of course, you’re not butting in,” he smiled. “And I’m delighed.” . “I think I shall go in,” she said. t “I must have been on this raft nearly half an hour. Then . . . till this evening!” He watched her slip into the water and strike out powerfully for the shore and presently he set off in the other direction. At lunch she told Nanette that the would not be in that evening. “I’m dining with Mr Brereton,” she added with a smile. “Paul Brereton?” “Yes. He’s a neighbour of mine in England.” 1 “He’s ,a very nice gentleman,” said Nanette. “I heard that Madame was a doctor?” she went on, changing the subject. “That police form I filled in? Yes, I am. But I’m on holiday, Nanette.” “Assuredly, Madame,” said Nanette. When she came downstairs at a quarter to seven, Paul Brereton awaited her on the Terrace. “I thought I’d slip down with the car for you,” he explained. “But how nice of you,” she said as he opened th 6 door of his car. “Although I could have walked there in a few minutes.” “I hope it won’t be too cool to have dinner on the terrace,” he said. “What do you think?” “I should love it,” she said. “Surely the place can’t be real!” she went on as she stood looking out from the top of the steps. “It’s real enough,” he smiled. “I love it for a few weeks in the summer. I see it with a new vision. In a month’s time I shall hardly notice it. Ah! Here is Yvette!” Yvette was Madame Berger, a buxom Frenchwoman who brought out a tray with the drinks. “You don’t do yourself badly in L’Hermitage,” she observed as she sipped her sherry. “On the contrary I do myself very well indeed. Nevertheless, the world remains in my debt —as it does in yours.” “Go on. I’ll buy it,” she smiled and sipped that very dry sherry again. “I am an artist. ... I give it beauty. You a doctor ... and you give it health.” “Beauty and health! The world should be grateful to us?” she smiled. “It should be,” he agreed. “I’m afraid my part of the statement is untrue. I don’t give it health. I patch up its ill-health, and, in very bad cases, attempt to suppress symptoms.” After the meal they still remained at the.table on the terrace overlooking the: sea, with the dark masses of the islands forming the sky-line. “It's very lonely here,” she said, watching the mass of colour ini front of her. “And strangely quiet once you have grown accustomed to the rythmic monotone of the sea.” “I often think it would be a perfect place for a honeymoon.” “I suppose it would —although I don’t know a great deal about honeymoons,” she added with a laugh. “A girl I used to know always; said that she would spend her honeymoon in Paris, where there’s something going on all the time.” “And did she?” “No. She never married.” “Do you imply that you don’t think very much of this place for a honeymoon?” “It’s perfectly lovely, of course,” she temporised. “I think you’re right. You see, I

bought it for my honeymoon . . . years ago.” It was growing darker, and she could only dimly see his face. “One day I may tell you about it,” he went on. (To Bo Continued)

The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private property.