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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Still I don't know where this particular paradise is which you've selected," returned Gillian patiently. "It's at the back of beyond a tiny village in Devonshire called Ashencombe. I just managed to find it on the Ordnance map with a magnifying glass! The farm itself is called Stockleigh and is owned and farmed by some people named Storran. The answer to my letter was signed Dan Storran.
"Heaven knows you're not!" agreed Gillian ruefully. "It would be a wholesome tonic for you if you were. I told you only yesterday that it would be better if we left here. And on top of that you must needs go and dance in the moonlight, of all things, while Dan Storran looks on! What ordinary man is going to keep his head in such circumstances, do you suppose?
Storran obviously comes of good stock, while I expect he himself is just an ordinary sort of farmer and doesn't half appreciate her. Anyway, he doesn't seem to consider her much." Magda made no answer. Characteristically her interest in June Storran had evaporated, pushed aside by something of more personal concern.
Hasn't it a nice sound Storran of Stockleigh?" "And did you engage the rooms on those grounds, may I ask? Because the proprietor's name 'had a nice sound'?" Magda regarded her seriously. "Do you know, I really believe that had a lot to do with it," she acknowledged. Gillian went off into a little gale of laughter. "How like you!" she exclaimed.
Storran of Stockleigh was as civilised, his clothes and general appearance as essentially "right," as those of the men around him. All suggestion of the "cave-man from the backwoods," as Lady Arabella had termed him, was gone. "I didn't know you were in England," said Gillian at last. "I landed yesterday." "You've been in South America, haven't you?" She spoke mechanically.
"That's all," he replied quietly. She crossed the room swiftly to his side. "Then, if that's all, Dan, we we won't speak of it again ever," she said steadily. "It it was just a mistake. It need never come between us. You'll get over it, and I" her small head reared itself bravely "I'll forget it." The pathetic courage of her! Storran turned away with a groan. "No," he answered.
June Storran had no possibility of knowing that this dark, slender woman to whom she had let her rooms was the famous dancer, Magda Wielitzska, since the rooms had been engaged in the name of Miss Vallincourt, but she responded to Magda's unfailing charm as a flower to the sun. "It will be lovely for us, too," she replied.
But Dan didn't really approve." "I can quite understand," said Gillian. "Naturally he wanted to keep his home to himself an Englishman's home is his castle, you know! And I expect" smilingly "you haven't been married very long." Mrs. Storran flushed rosily. She was evidently a sensitive little person, and the blood came and went quickly under her clear skin at the least provocation.
Some instinct leads them to divine unfailingly which is gold and which dross. The car was a recent acquisition. As Storran himself expressed it, rather bitterly: "Now that I can't buy a ha'p'orth of happiness with the money, my luck has turned."
"Yes, I suppose so," replied Gillian absently, her eyes following the queue of passengers passing through the gate on the platform. By mutual consent they had come to a standstill outside it. "Then if he isn't there, what's the use of your rushing over to Paris?" protested Storran. "It's absurd an absolute wild-goose chase. You can't go!" Gillian's brown eyes came back to his face.
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