mma sat up with an abrupt jolt.

I don't believe it, I almost dozed off, she thought with exasperation. Only old ladies do that in the middle of the day. She began to laugh. Well, she was an old lady, wasn't she, even though she was loath to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.

Shifting her position on the sofa, she stretched, then straightened her skirt, and immediately became aware of the heat from the blazing fire. The room was stifling even for her— she, who had always suffered from the cold and rarely ever felt warm enough. No wonder she had become so drowsy.

With a burst of energy she propelled herself up and off the sofa and hurried to the windows. She opened one of them and took several deep breaths, fanning herself with her hand. The crisp air felt good, and the breeze brushing against her face soon refreshed her, and she stood there for a moment or two until she was cooler before turning away and retracing her steps.

Her pace was slower, and she looked around as she skirted the two large plump sofas in the center of the floor. She nodded with pleasure, thinking how lovely the room appeared at this moment, washed as it was in the golden sunlight now streaming in through the many windows. But then it always did look beautiful to her, and she would rather be here than anywhere else on this earth.

Is it age, I wonder, that makes us cleave to the best-known spaces in our lives, to the well-loved and familiar things? Is it the memories of the years gone.by and of those we cared so much about, which bind us to those places and make them so special in our deepest hearts? She believed that this was true—at least for her. She felt safe, and comforted, when she was in surroundings where so many episodes of her long arid colorful life had been played out.

Such a place was Pennistpne Royal, this ancient, historic and rambling house on the outskirts of Ripon, which she had purchased in 1932. In particular she favored this room—the upstairs parlor—where she had spent so many endless happy hours over the years..She had often wondered how it had come to be called the upstairs parlor, for there was nothing parlorlike about it at all. This struck her once again as her glance took in the impressive architectural details and the splendid furnishings.

By the very nature of its -dimensions, the room had a singular grandeur, with its high, Jacobean ceiling decorated with elaborate plasterwork, its tall leaded windows flanking the unique oriel window, and the carved fireplace of bleached oak. Yet for all its imposing detail and despite its size, Emma had introduced a mellow charm and great comfort, plus a subtle understated elegance that had taken time/much patience, superb taste, and a vast amount of money to create.

Being confident of her original choices, Emma had never felt it necessary to change anything, so the room had remained the same for over thirty years. She knew for -instance that no other paintings could ever surpass the fine portraits of a young nobleman and his wife by Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the priceless Turner landscape. The three oils were in perfect harmony with her graceful Georgian antiques, collected so lovingly and with infinite care. And such things as the Savonnerie carpet, faded now to a delicate beauty, and her Rose Medallion china in the Chippendale cabinet, were matchless touches that added to the room's graciousness and style. Even the walls were always repainted in their original primrose, for to her discerning eye this pale and delicate color made the most restful backdrop for the art and the rich patinas of the dark woods, and it introduced the cheerful sunny aspect she preferred.

This morning the springlike mood of the setting, created by the airy color scheme and the brightly patterned chintz on the sofas, was reinforced by porcelain bowls brimming with jonquils, tulips, and hyacinths, which spilled their lively yellows, reds, pinks, and mauves onto some of the darkly gleaming surfaces, and their fragrant scents were aromatic on the still and gentle air.

Emma moved forward, then paused again in front of the fireplace. She never tired of looking at the Turner which hung above the mantelpiece, dominating the soaring chimney wall with its misty greens and blues. The landscape was bucolic, evocative, and a superb example of Turner's poetic and visionary interpretations of the pastoral scene.

It's definitely the light, she decided for the hundredth time, as always fascinated by the luminous sky in the painting. In Emma's opinion no one had ever been able to capture light on canvas in quite the same manner as Turner. The clear cool light in this masterpiece was forever associated in her mind with the northern skies under which she had grown up and had lived for most of her'life, and which she would love always. She believed them to be unique because of their clarity and a radiance that seemed unearthly at times.

Her eye now caught the carriage clock, reposing on the mantelpiece. It was almost one. She had better pull herself together and very smartly, since Emily was due momentarily, and everyone had to be on their toes when the volatile, whirlwind Emily was around. Most especially old ladies, she added, chuckling softly again.

Hurrying briskly into the adjoining bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. After dabbing her nose with powder, she renewed her pink lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. There, that does it. Passable, she added under her breath, peering into the glass. No, more than passable. I really do look pretty nifty today, as Alexander said I did.

She swung her head and stared at Paul's photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.

I wonder what you would think of me if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?

Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of

dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York on February the third of 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Rise Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterward Paul had taken them to Delmonico's for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson's talk of impending war, and Paul's equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul's mood had been gay later at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.

She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.

Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life... particularly a long life like mine.

Without thinking, she spoke aloud, "If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been." Unexpectedly her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.

"Grandma... are you alone?" Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.

Startled, Emma jumped and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. "Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn't hear you come through the parlor. And of course I'm alone."

Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, "I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran."

"I was. I was talking to him." She inclined her head at the photograph and added dryly, "And if you think I'm getting

senile, you can forget it. I've talked to that photograph for thirty years."

"Gosh, Grancly, you're the last person I'd ever think of as being senile!" Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. "Mummy maybe, but never you."

Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. "Where is your mother, Emily? Do you know?"

"Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that's where she's gone."

"Haiti," Emma sat up in the'chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. "Isn't that the place they practice voodoo. 1 hope she isn't having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does."

Emily also laughed, shaking her head. "Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn't think of anything like that. 1 doubt she's ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I'm sure she's far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman."

"Oh. So, she's done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations."

"Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy." Emily's green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.

Emma said, "Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What's this one's name?"

"Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He's always in the gossip columns. And you're right on target regarding his character. But he doesn't have a title, dubious or otherwise."

"That's a relief. I'm sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas, and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn't he?"

"I'd categorize him as IWT, Gran."

"What on earth does that mean, dear?" Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.

"International White Trash."

Emma guffawed. "That's a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily."

"It's a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfill in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won't be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London." Emily made a disagreeable face. "Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair's fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I'm surprised Mummy got involved with him. He's so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran."

Emma frowned. "Have you met him then?"

"Yes and before Mummy too." She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first; That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, "He's quite ghastly."

Emma sighed and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive—frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of-hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said with some asperity, "Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for God's sake? Don't bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian."

Emily stared at her in disbelief. "Grandy!" she shrieked. "What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him."

"I changed my mind," Emma replied loftily. "As it turned out he wasn't a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins." She stood up. "Let's go into the parlor and have a drink before lunch." She tucked her arm through Emily's compan-ionably and steered her across the floor. She asked again, "So where is Gianni what's-his-name?"

"He's around. He's moved out of Mummy's flat, of course.

But he's still in London. He's got himself a job with some Italian importing company—antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He's rather attached to them, I think."

"I see." Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself onto one of the sofas. "I'd like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honors, please dear."

"Yes, Grandy. I think I'll have one myself." Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal glasses. Emma's eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse, Emily reminded her of an iridescent hummingbird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She's a good girl, Emma thought. -Thank God she hasn't turned out like her mother.

Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, "Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?"

"For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finishing school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime they seem to be happy at the college. Of course I realize that's because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much." Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succumbed tinder their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.

Leaning back against the cushions, she let out a tiny sigh. "Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering and a chance to lead a normal family life. They've had little enough of either with your mother.'

"That's true," Emily agreed, carrying the drinks over to the seating arrangement in front of the fire. "I feel a bit sorry for them myself. I suppose Alexander and I got the best of Mummy—I mean, her better years. The girls have had a rough time of it... all those husbands. It seems to me that ever since she left their father,' our mother has been on a downward slide. Oh well, what can you do?..." Emily's

young breathy voice petered out sadly. She shrugged in resignation, and her whole demeanor reflected her disenchantment. "There's not much you or I can do about your daughter, my mother, Grandy. She's not likely to change."

Emily now looked across at her grandmother, her blond brows meeting in a frown. She said in a fretful tone, "The trouble with poor Mummy is that she suffers from the most terrible insecurity about herself, her looks, her figure, her personality... well, just about everything."

"Oh, do you think so?" Emma exclaimed in astonishment at this remark. Her face changed, and there was a glint of malice in her flinty green eyes as she remarked, with immense coldness, "I can't imagine why.." She lifted her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Gran darling."

Emma settled into a comer of the vast sofa, and, squinting in the sunlight, she focused on the attractive twenty-two-year-old Emily. The girl had a special place in her affections, for apart from being open and uncomplicated, she had a very lovable personality, one that was sunny, cheerful, and perennially optimistic, and she was a dynamic girl, filled with enthusiasm for life and her work. If Emily's pink-and-cream blond prettiness had the porcelain fragility of a Dresden shepherdess, it was nevertheless deceptive, belying an extraordinary drive that had the velocity and power of an express train running at full speed. Emma knew there were those in the family, specifically her sons, who thought Emily was scatterbrained and flippant. This secretly amused Emma, since she was fully aware that Emily purposely chose to give this fraudulent impression. In no way did it reflect her basic seriousness and diligence. Emma had long ago decided that her sons really disliked 'their niece because she was far too blunt and opinionated—and truthful—for their comfort. Emma had been witness to more than one scene when the intrepid Emily had made Kit and Robin squirm.

Emma looked into the clear green eyes, a reflection of her own as they had once been, saw the expectancy flickering in them, then noted the confident smile etched on Emily's mouth. Emily had obviously convinced herself she was going to get her own way. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath, Emma said with a faint laugh, "For someone with a serious problem, you certainly don't look very troubled, dear. You're positively glowing this morning."

Emily nodded and admitted, "I don't think my problem's all that serious, Grandy. I mean, it doesn't seem to be today."

"I'm glad to hear that. You sounded as if you had the burdens of the world on your shoulders, when you spoke to me on Tuesday morning."

"Did I really?" Emily laughed. "I suppose things seem so much brighter when I'm with you. Perhaps that's because I know you can always solve any problem, and I just know you'll—" She broke off when Emma held up a silencing hand.

Emma said, "I've known for some time that you want to go back to Paris, to work in the store there. That is what you want to discuss, isn't it? That is your problem?"

"Yes, Gran," Emily said, her eyes shining with eagerness.

Emma put down her drink on the butler's tray table and leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. She said carefully, "I'm afraid I can't let you go to Paris. I'm very sorry to disappoint you, Emily, but you will have to stay here."

The happy smile vanished, and Emily's face dropped. "But why, Grandy?" she asked in a crushed voice. "I thought you were pleased with the way I handled things in Paris all last summer and through the autumn."

"I was. Very pleased in fact and proud of you. Your performance has nothing to do with my decision. No, that's not strictly true. One of the reasons I've formulated new plans for you is because of the way you performed over there." Emma's eyes did not leave her granddaughter's face as she explained carefully, "Plans for your future. Which, in my considered opinion, is with Harte Enterprises."

"Harte Enterprises!" Emily cried, her voice rising incredulously.

She froze on the sofa, staring at her grandmother dumbfounded. "Where would I fit in there? Alexander, Sarah, and Jonathan are working in that company, and I'd just be a spare wheel! A dog's body, with nothing to do. Anyway, I've always worked for you. In the stores. I love retailing, and you know that, Gran. I'd just hate, positively hate and detest, being pushed into that organization," Emily protested with uncommon fierceness, flushing bright pink. Breathlessly she rushed on, "I really mean it. You ve always said it's important to enjoy one's work. Well, I certainly wouldn't enjoy working at Harte Enterprises. Oh please let me go to Paris. I really love that store, and I want to continue to help you get it properly on its feet. Please change your mind. Please, oh please, Gran darling. I'll just be miserable if you don't," she wailed, and her face was as woebegone as her voice as she clenched her hands together in her lap.

Emma made an irritated clucking noise and shook her head reprovingly. "Now, now, Emily, don't be so dramatic," she exclaimed with unusual sharpness. "And do stop trying to cajole me. I know all about your wheedling. Sometimes it works; other times, like right now, I am quite impervious to it. And incidentally, the Paris store is on its feet, thanks in no small measure to you. So you're not needed there anymore. Very frankly, I need you here."

This remark, although uttered mildly, caused Emily to sit up swiftly, and she frowned, further taken aback. "You need me, Grandy. What for? What do you mean?" Emily's eyes widened and filled with worry. She wondered if her grandmother had a serious problem within Harte Enterprises. Hardly. Her health? That seemed unlikely too. But obviously something was amiss.

"What's wrong, Grandma?" she asked, giving words to her spiraling anxiety, all ideas about Paris swept completely out of her head.

"There is nothing wrong, dear," Emma said with a bright smile, detecting the girl's concern. "Before I explain my reasons for wanting you here, I'would like to clarify my remark about your future. Naturally I realize you like working at the stores, but you can't get much further at Harte's. Paula and your Uncle David have the real power there these days, and Paula will inherit all of my shares one day. Paula respects your ability, and she would love to keep you by her side, but Emily, you'd always be a salaried employee, with no financial interest whatsoever. I do—"

"I know that," Emily interjected. "But—"

"Don't interrupt me," Emma snapped, cutting her off. "As you learned last spring, I have left you sixteen percent of Harte Enterprises, and that's a'huge interest, since the company is so very rich. And solid. As solid as the Bank of England, in my opinion. Your wealth, your future security will come from your shares in Harte Enterprises, and I have felt for the longest time that you must have a hand in running it. After all, it will belong in part to you one day."

Emma could not fail to miss the worried expression now settling on Emily's face, and she reached across the table and squeezed her arm affectionately. "Don't look so distressed.

I'm not implying that I lack confidence in your brother. You must know that I don't. Alexander will guide and guard Harte Enterprises with all of his strength and ability, and with great devotion, I've no fear. Nevertheless I want you to be active there, along with Sandy and your cousins. 1 really believe that you must direct that considerable energy of yours, and your many talents into the company in which you have such a major stake, and from which you will reap so many benefits."

Emily was quiet, mulling over her grandmother's words, and after a longish pause, she said slowly, "Yes, I see what you mean, and I know you have my interests at heart, but there's nothing about the company that appeals to me. Anyway, Sarah has always enjoyed running the clothing end, and she'd resent it if you shoved me in there with her. As for Jonathan, he'd really get on that high horse of his, if you foist me on him. He considers the real estate division to be his little kingdom and his alone. He'd be in revolt if I started poking around there. So what would I do at H.E.? The only thing I understand is retailing." Her voice faltered, for she was on the verge of tears, and she looked away swiftly, staring out the window, her expression exceedingly glum.

The prospect of leaving the Harte chain of stores and Paula, whom she worshiped, was depressing and distressing to Emily. And she would have to leave. That had already been decided, she,had the good sense to recognize. Her opinion wasn't being sought. She was being told what to do, told what was expected of her, and her grandmother's authority was unassailable. Besides that cold and stubborn look was now engraved on her grandmother's face, and it was a look they were all familiar with, one which left nothing to the imagination. It said in no uncertain language that Emma Harte would have her own way no matter what. Emily felt the prick of tears behind her eyes as she contemplated her miserable future. Mortified, she blinked them back and swallowed, endeavoring to hold on to her diminishing composure. Tears, emotion, and any other sign of weakness in business were anathema to her grandmother.

Emma, observing the girl closely, saw how troubled and upset she was growing, and realized immediately that she must allay Emily's worries. Adopting her most sympathetic manner, Emma said, "Don't take this so hard, dear. It's not half as bad as you imagine. And I certainly had no intention of putting you in either of the divisions run by your cousins.

That wouldn't be fair to any of you. Nor am I considering making you Sandy's assistant—if that idea has entered your agile little brain. No, no, nothing like that. When I said I needed you here,-1 did mean here. In Yorkshire. I would like you to work at General Retail Trading and learn everything there is to know about that division of Harte Enterprises. You see, Emily, I want you to run it for me eventually."

For a moment Emily thought she had misheard. She was so surprised she was speechless. She gaped at her grandmother and then finally managed to ask, "Are you serious?"

"Really, Emily, that's a stupid question. Do you honestly think / would joke about my business?"

"No, Grandy." Emily bit her lip, trying to digest her grandmother's words. The General Retail Trading Company, known within the family as Genret, was one of Harte Enterprises' most important assets and an enormous money maker. As the implications behind her grandmother's announcement began to sink in, she was assaulted by a mixture of emotions: She was flattered, overwhelmed, worried, and scared all at once. But these feelings were almost instantaneously overshadowed by genuine bafflement.

Sitting forward with a jerk, she asked in a puzzled voice, "But why do you suddenly need me? You have Leonard Harvey. He's been running Genret for years and brilliantly. Or so you've always said."

"And I meant what I said." Emma picked up her drink, took a sip, sat nursing it in her hands. "However, Len reminded me several weeks ago that he will be retiring in three years. I'd hoped he would stay on, but he insists on going when it's time. He wants a chance to enjoy life, do a few of the things he's always wanted to do, like take a trip around the world, for one thing." Emma laughed softly. "I can certainly understand his point of view. That man's worked for me for over thirty-five years, and I don't remember him ever taking a day off, except for his annual summer holidays in August. Naturally, I'd no option but to agree, albeit reluctantly."

Emma put down her drink, rose, and went to stand with her back to the fireplace. She stared down at Emily and continued matter-of factly, "Len brought up his retirement because he thought it was high time I started to think about his successor. It occurred to me at once that here was the perfect opening for you. I've been racking my brains for months, wondering how to get you situated within Harte Enterprises in a division you would enjoy. I believe I've found it, Emily, and I'm also convinced Genret could well use your special talents."

Emily said nothing. She, who had an opinion about everything which she usually had no qualms expressing, was now oddly at a loss for words.

Emma stood waiting, giving Emily a chance to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts. She understood perfectly the girl's unprecedented reticence. She had just dropped a bombshell on her..But as the silence grew, Emma, always in a hurry to settle matters and move on, announced peremptorily, "I need you to start working at'Genret immediately. Len wants to begin his training program at once. Three years may seem like a long time to you, but it isn't really. Genret is a large company, and you will have a great deal to absorb and understand. So what do you say?"

Still Emily was mute, and Emma threw her a sharper look. Then she scowled at her. "Come along, dear, you must have some comment to make. I can't believe that the cat's got your tongue permanently."

Pulling herself together, Emily gave her grandmother an uncertain smile. "Are you sure? Really sure about me going into Genret?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it, if I'd had any doubts," Emma retorted crossly.

"But what about the group at Genret?" Emily asked quickly. "I mean, will they sit still for it? For me?"

"I am Genret, Emily. Or had you forgotten that?"

"No, no, of course I hadn't. Grandmother. What I meant was, will Len and the top management team accept me? I know you can appoint anybody you want, since it's your company, but surely Len must have a protege', somebody he would like to follow in his footsteps, who knows the inner workings of Genret."

"He doesn't. Furthermore he thinks you're the ideal choice. And he's not just pandering to me. Len's too shrewd and outspoken to fall into that trap. And, while he realizes I would like a member of the family inside Genret once he goes, he would tell me point-blank if there was no suitable candidate. He would insist we look outside the family. It just so happens that he thinks you're ideally suited to head up a wholesale supply company. For several reasons, all of them excellent. Your experience with the stores, your considerable knowledge of retailing, not to mention merchandise, plus your natural business abilities. That you also happen to be my granddaughter is simply fortuitous. It didn't influence him one iota, I can assure you of that. Besides, you're a quick study, Emily, and you've learned a lot in the last five years."

"I'm glad to have Len's vote of confidence as well as yours, Grandy." Emily started to relax, and as her depression also began to lift, she discovered she was excited about the sudden turn of events. She asked, "And Alexander? Have you discussed it with him?"

"Naturally. He thinks you'll be marvelous."

"What does Paula say?"

"She's delighted too. She's going to miss you at the stores, but she recognizes the good sense behind my plans for you."

"Then it's settled!" Emily beamed and allowed her natural enthusiasm to surface. "Genret is a big responsibility, but now that I've recovered from my initial surprise, I'm looking forward to it, I really am. I'll try very hard, and I'll do my best not to let you down."

"I know you will, dear." Emma returned her smile, delighted to finally witness Emily's eagerness and her excitement. Not that she had had any doubts about her offer being accepted. Emily was far too clever to thwart her, or to pass up the opportunity to head a division. Besides Emily loved a challenge. This last thought prompted Emma to add, "I'm quite certain you'll enjoy this new venture as much as you did your sojourn in Paris last year. It's going to be equally as challenging and ultimately very' rewarding."

"Yes, I know it will be." With a sudden flush of embarrassment, Emily recalled her outburst of earlier. Looking extremely shamefaced, she apologized, "I'm sorry I behaved in such a childish way, when you said I couldn't go back to Paris, Grandy. It was ridiculous of me to act like that."

"I -understand. You were disappointed. In any case, you'll be going to Paris quite a lot for Genret and traveling all over the world on your buying trips. That's certainly something to look forward to, Emily."

"Oh it is, Grandy. And thank you for your faith in me and for this wonderful opportunity." Emily jumped up and hugged Emma tightly. With a happy little laugh, she said, "Oh Grandy, you re such an inspiration! You make everything seem possible—and attainable. And exciting as well. Do you know what? I feel like rushing down to the Genret offices in Leeds right now and getting stuck into the work with Len immediately."

"Len and Genret have managed to exist without you until now, Emily, so I think they'll survive for another few days," Emma replied, her mouth twitching with hidden laughter. "In the meantime I have a much better idea. I think you should come downstairs with me and have lunch instead. -I don't know about you, but I'm famished."