here was something of the actor in Shane O'Neill.

It was a talent inherited from Blackie, and he was able to fall back on that skill whenever it suited him. It did now.

He pushed open the front door of Holly Tree Cottage, took several deep breaths, donned a mask of geniality, and headed down the stoneflagged passageway.

He paused at the entrance to the living room, drew his inbred self-assurance around him, and stepped over the threshold.

At this instant he became what they expected him to be—a man without the slightest care, one who held the world in his arms.

Laughter sprang readily to his lips, a sparkle entered his brilliant eyes, and he exuded ebullience and bonhomie, strolling forward at a leisurely pace to join his closest male friends— Winston Harte, Alexander Barkstone, and Michael Kallinski. Allison and her women guests were nowhere in sight, and these three stood huddled in front of the window next to the refectory table set up as a bar for the evening.

Meandering across the floor, Shane glanced about with interest, struck at once by the beauty of this main room in the cottage, which was really two dwellings knocked into one. He remembered that Allison had recently finished decorating it, and she had done wonders with the place. The low, beamed ceiling and wide stone fireplace—both Tudor—gave the setting its real character, but the colorful cretonnes covering the sofas and chairs, the old pine furniture, and Sally Harte's dreamlike watercolors on the white-washed walls contributed much to its intrinsic charm. It was a rustic country room, free of pretensions and fussiness, yet eminently comfortable and cozy, the kind he liked. He made a mental note to congratulate Allison the minute he saw her.

As soon as Shane drew to a standstill in front of his friends, the banter started.

They joshed him unmercifully about being late and made innumerable innuenclos about the real reason behind his tardiness. He took it all with good humor, laughed good-naturedly, and shot back a few missiles of his own. The strain and tension eased out of his aching muscles, and he started to relax at last, feeling comfortable and at home with the three men. And within minutes he was responding fully to their warmth, affection, and friendship, and to the carefree mood, the jollity that prevailed here this evening.

At one moment he took a cigarette, brought his lighter to its tip, and as he did he thought fleetingly of Dorothea's virulent condemnation of his set, their world. Well, she had been correct in one sense—they were extremely clannish, he had to admit that. If they clung together, it was because they had been brought up with each other, had always been close and intimately involved on every level. Blackie, Emma, and David Kallinski, Michael's grandfather, had seen to that. They had been through a lot together in the early days at the turn of the century, sharing their terrible struggles and later triumphs, and it was from them that the unbreakable bonds of friendship sprang. That extraordinary trio, founders of three powerful Yorkshire dynasties, had been tight most of their lives, from the day they had met in fact, and devoted thereafter, right up to David's untimely death in the early sixties. Because their children and grandchildren had been thrown together since birth and in the ensuing years, it was only natural that a large number of them remained staunchly loyal, the dearest of friends, and constant companions.

What the hell, Shane thought, filling with a spurt of impatience with himself. Why do I worry about her opinions of us? This is the way we are, the way we live; and what's more we genuinely care about each other, deeply so. And we've always been there for each other in times of trouble and grief—-just as our grandparents were before we were born.

Winston, misunderstanding Shane's sudden silence, said to the others, "Okay, chaps, let's give him a breather. What would you like, Shane? A Scotch?"

"No thanks. Just soda water, please."

"What's the matter with you tonight?" Winston asked as he filled the glass. "It's not like an Irishman to be imbibing this innocuous stuff."

Shane grinned as he took the drink. "Too much champagne earlier. But 1 must say, none of you seem the worse for wear,

and you were all knocking it back like sailors on shore leave." Looking at Michael, he went on, "1 assume your parents are still in Hong Kong, since they weren't with you at the christening."

"Yes. They get back in two weeks, and then I leave for New York. I hope we can get together, Shane. Where will you be staying?"

"At Aunt Emma's Fifth Avenue flat until I find a place of my own. And I'll be bloody furious if you don't phone me." Shane now glanced past Winston. Valentine Stone, Michael's girlfriend, was coming back into the room from the garden, followed by Marguerite Reynolds and a blond girl. He guessed she was Allison s American friend and the reason for the dinner party. He waved to them, then took Michael's arm. "Do I notice a ring on Valentine's finger?"

"Yes, but it's on her right hand, not her left, you idiot!" Michael Kallinski made a face, chuckled. "You'll be the first to know when I decide to take that ghastly step, Shane."

Alexander cut in, "Just listen to the man... we all know she's got you where she wants you, Mike."

"You've got room to talk," Michael shot back. "Marguerite has you pinioned down in the same position, flat on your back in a stranglehold, gasping for air."

They all laughed.

Alexander flushed and retorted, "Don't be too sure." He hesitated, then volunteered, "One thing is certain though. Grandmother likes Maggie, approves of her. She thinks I should pop the question now before some other fellow steals her away from under my nose. Some confidence Emma Harte has in her grandson, I must say." Alexander shook his head, took refuge in his usual reserved shell, observing Maggie out of the corner of his eye. She looked stunning tonight in a scarlet pants suit, her light brown hair swept up in an old-fashioned pompadour. Perhaps he should take his grandmother's advice.

Shane, who had flinched inside at Alexander's words, said in a low voice, "Don't let her escape. Aunt Emma's right, she's quite a catch, Sandy, and such a nice girl."

Michael added, "And the world is full of predatory males, as we all know, Alexander. You'd better do what E.H. says before it's too late."

Shane swung to Winston. "And where's your lady love hiding herself."

"What?" Winston asked, pulling himself away from thoughts of Emily. He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Allison. Where is she?" Shane stared at him and went on, "I haven't said hello to my hostess yet."

"Oh! Yes, Allison. She dashed off to the kitchen just before you arrived," Winston said quickly, trying to cover his lapse. "She'll be back in a second. She went to see if the two local girls she hired for the evening are coping. In the meantime I'd better take you over to the guest of honor and introduce you; otherwise Allison'll have my guts for garters." Winston gave Shane a knowing wink. "Allison's friend lives in New York. If you behave yourself tonight, she might even agree to go out with you."

"I won't have time for women. I'll he far too busy with the hotel. Stop trying to fix me up, Winston." Shane remonstrated, then thought to ask, "Anyway, what makes you think I'd be interested?"

"Because she's rather nice," Winston replied.

Shane made no comment, followed his friend down the long room to the fireplace where the three women stood chatting.

The tall, slender blonde watched them approaching, trying not to give the appearance of doing so, instantly struck by Shane O'Neill's undeniable presence even from this distance. In fact she had been aware of him the minute she had returned to the living room. Allison had told her who and what he was... the young scion of a famous Yorkshire family, the most eligible of bachelors, and one who had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, the money to buy himself the world if he wanted. He also had the looks to take him wherever he wanted. And right into any woman's bed, if he so wished, she decided. Allison had not exaggerated.

Shane kissed Valentine and Marguerite, and Winston said, "Skye, I'd like you to meet Shane O'Neill. Shane, this is Skye Smith from New York."

They shook hands, exchanged greetings.

Shane said pleasantly with a friendly smile, "I hear this is your first trip to Yorkshire. Are you enjoying it?"

"I'm loving every minute. It's so beautiful... the Dales are breathtaking. Allison's whizzed me all over this past week, buying antiques, so I've seen a lot of your glorious countryside."

"Allison's the expert, so I'm sure she helped you find some really interesting things. You're in the same business, Winston tells me," Shane remarked.

"Yes, I have a small antique shop on Lexington Avenue, in the Sixties. And fortunately a lot of good customers who are hungry for English antiques and silver." She laughed lightly. "I've bought up half of Yorkshire, and now I'm' worrying about storing everything I'm having shipped home next week. My shop's going to be bursting at the seams."

Valentine said, "Allison told me you came across some beautiful old Victorian silver in Richmond. Surely you won't have a problem selling those pieces. And immediately."

"No, I won't," Skye said and gave them a detailed description of every item of silver now in her possession. Winston excused himself and ambled' off. Shane lolled against the fireplace, bored with the subject of antiques and only vaguely listening to the women's chatter. He studied the American girl. She was charming; certainly she was good-looking, Personable, and obviously very bright. Still he had known at once that she was not his type. Cool, pristine blondes who looked like Scandinavian ice maidens had never appealed to him much. He preferred dark exotic women. Like Paula.. He crushed the thought of her.

After a polite interval had elapsed, he said, "I really ought to go and find Allison. Please excuse me." With a brief nod he disappeared, went down the narrow hall, making for the kitchen. But as he passed the small intimate dining room, he spotted Allison through the open door. She was surveying the table intently..

"There you are, Mrs. Ridley!" he exclaimed, striding inside, pulling her to him, enveloping her in a bear hug. "Congratulations! The cottage looks lovely..Now, why are you hiding from me? I've begun to think you're punishing me for being so late."

"Not you, Shane darling. You can do anything—I'd never be angry with you."

"You'd better not let Winston hear you say things like that. You'll make him jealous."

The merriment left Allison's face, and she said in a tight voice, "I'm not so sure..."

Shane threw her a questioning look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Allison shrugged, bent over the table, and moved a small silver bird closer to its companion, averting her head.

Shane's face was a study in perplexity as he waited for her to finish fiddling with the table decorations, to respond to his question. When she did not, he took her arm gently, turned her to him. He immediately perceived she was upset.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he murmured softly, staring down Into her bleak face.

"Nothing. Really and truly—" she began and broke off, wavering. Finally she said in a great rush of words, "Oh, I'm not going to lie to you, Shane. Winston's been funny with me since he arrived tonight. Not himself. Distracted." Her light gray eyes searched his face. "Did something happen this afternoon... something that might have upset him?" '

Shane shook his head. "Not that I know of, Allison."

"I think 'it must have. If it didn't, then his odd behavior must have something to do with me, with us. Perhaps he's lost interest in me."

"I'm sure you're wrong." ',

"I'm not, Shane. I know Winston almost as well as you do. Generally he is sunny-tempered, and he's warm and affectionate. We've been getting on wonderfully these last few months. So much so, I had the feeling he might propose soon. He's been sending out signals... he told me how much his father liked me and, perhaps more importantly, Emma Harte. When he arrived earlier, I noticed a change in him... he was different, preoccupied. He got here late, when he'd promised to come before the other guests to help me move the refectory table and do a few other things—and you know he's never late. That didn't matter of course. But he was cool, even a bit brusque, and naturally I was taken aback. He did soften during drinks, after Alexander and Maggie had arrived, but frankly he is distant. It's not like him in the least—being so moody, I mean."

Shane was more baffled than ever. He ran the events of the afternoon through his head, wondering if something had occurred which had disturbed Winston. But nothing untoward had happened to his knowledge, and Winston had seemed untroubled to him.

He said, "Listen, maybe it is something to do with business. That seems to be the most plausible explanation to me. Yes, it must be a business worry." He offered her a reassuring smile. "I'm convinced his attitude has nothing to do with your relationship. And he's certainly not lost interest in you. How could you think that?"

She looked at him for the longest moment and smiled regretfully. "A woman senses these things."

Shane exclaimed, "You're reading this the wrong way, imagining the worst." He took her hand, tucked it through his arm, and walked her to the door. "Come on, let's go back to the sitting room and I'll buy you a good stiff drink. I could use one myself." His eyes were warm with affection. "You'll see, Winston will be his old self with you."

"You sound more certain of that than I feel," she replied softly. But she brought a carefree expression to her face as she returned to her guests, clinging to Shane's arm, thankful to have his moral support.

Later in the evening, when they were at dinner, Shane decided-that Allison had been right in one respect: Winston was not entirely himself.

He sat at the head of the table, and although he was pleasant and charming, played 'the good host to the hilt, Shane detected

an abstracted look flickering behind his eyes, recognized the forced note in his laughter, the falseness behind his joviality.

To distract everyone's attention and to give Winston breathing space, Shane became the life and soul of the dinner party. He was gregarious, outgoing, witty, and amusing. He was particularly attentive to Allison, on whose right he sat, was pleased that she responded in a positive way, and appeared to be more relaxed and at ease as the evening progressed.

But it was she who brought the meal finally to an end when-after dessert she said, "Let's have coffee and liqueurs in the sitting room, shall we?"

"That's a splendid idea," Winston exclaimed, smiling at her more warmly than he had since his arrival. He was the first to rise and ushered Allison and the other women out of the dining room. Shane followed with Michael and Alexander at his heels.

Winston went immediately to the refectory table, where he began to pour different liqueurs for the women guests. Shane strolled over to him and, striving to be casual, said, "Make mine a Bonnie Prince Charlie, please."

"Since when have you been drinking that awful stuff?" Winston asked, looking up. He grinned, turned back to his task of pouring white creme de menthe over the crushed ice he had spooned into a goblet.

"Don't sound so disapproving. You used to like it as much as I did when we were kids, gulping it down wholesale when • Aunt Emma wasn't looking."

"Yes, and if I remember correctly, we both used to get bloody sick on it. But okay, if that's what you want." Winston filled a glass with the liqueur, handed it to Shane with another grin, and finished pouring cognacs for Michael, Alexander, and himself.

Shane stood watching him. At last he asked in a low voice, "Are you okay?"

Winston lifted his head sharply. "Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You've seemed a bit out of it tonight."

"It's been a long day, hectic. I am a bit weary, I'm afraid. Do me a favor,' toddle over to Skye and ask her if she's changed her mind about an after-dinner drink, whilst I dutifully dispense these to the others. Allison will be back in a minute with the coffee." Winston picked up the tray and walked across the room, whistling under his breath.

Shane's eyes followed him, narrowing thoughtfully. Winston seemed normal enough now, and perhaps he had spoken the truth when he had claimed fatigue. Shane sauntered over to Skye Smith, who sat on the wide stone hearth by herself. "You're not drinking. Try this," he said in a commanding tone, handing her the glass.

She took it, sniffed it delicately, and looked up at him questioningly.

"It's a Bonnie Prince Charlie," Shane explained.

"What's that?"

He laughed. "Drambuie. Go on, take a sip; it won't poison you."

She did as he said and nodded her approval. "It has an unusual taste. 1 like it. Thank you, Shane."

"Don't move. I'll be right back." He returned a moment later with a Drambuie for himself, sat down next to her, and clinked her glass with his. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Skye glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was handsome. Perhaps too handsome. Men who looked like Shane O'Neill terrified her. They were usually untrustworthy... too much temptation fell into their paths.

Shane savored his drink for a minute, then put his glass on the hearth and asked, "Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?"

"No, not at all. And tell me something—why is Drambuie called Bonnie Prince Charlie?"

"Because when Bonnie Prince Charlie went to Scotland in 1745, trying to regain the throne of his ancestors, he was aided by a Mackinnon of Skye.' In gratitude Prince Charlie gave the man his o\vn recipe for his personal liqueur. Ever since then, the secret for its preparation has remained with the Mackinnons, and Drambuie gets its nickname from the legend. And speaking of the Isle of Skye, is that how you spell your name... sky with an e at the end?"

"Yes, but my name is really Schuyler. It's Dutch. A family name. I have a feeling my Mom thought plain old Smith needed jazzing up a bit." She smiled at him slowly.

"It's a very pretty name. It suits you," he said with a show of gallantry.

"Why thank you kindly, sir."

They fell silent.

Skye Smith was trying to decide whether she could suggest he call her in New York without appearing forward. She was not interested in him as a lover; on the other hand she had found herself drawn to him during dinner, almost against her will. He was entertaining, good company, and a delightful man, if a little vain and too sure of himself. But perhaps they could be friends.

Shane was still dwelling on Winston, discreetly observing him. He lounged on a sofa at the other side of the room, nursing his brandy, looking relaxed. Whatever problem had been bothering him earlier had apparently been resolved or dismissed as unimportant. He was laughing suddenly in a natural manner and teasing Allison. Shane noticed that her face was radiant. So much for all that, he thought, it was a storm about nothing. He filled with relief. He was going away tomorrow, and he did not like to think he was leaving when his dearest friend had troubles.

Skye finally spoke, interrupting Shane's contemplations. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound pushy or anything like that, but if I can be of help in New York, do feel free to call me." She added quickly, wanting to sound more businesslike, "The shop is listed under Brandt-Smith Antiques."

"That's very kind of you. I will," Shane said and startled himself with his ready acquiescence to her suggestion. He puffed on his cigar for a second; then, feeling the need to explain, he went on, "I don't know many people in New York. Just a couple of lawyers who work for our company. Oh, and I have an introduction to a man called Ross Nelson. A banker."

"Oh," she exclaimed.

Shane glanced at her, saw the surprise in her eyes. Or was it shock that had registered? "So you know Ross," he said, his curiosity flaring.

"No. No, I don't," she replied too swiftly. "I've heard of him, read about him in the newspapers, but that's all."

Shane nodded, and for a reason he could not fathom, he immediately changed the subject. But as they talked about other things, he could not help thinking that Skye Smith was much better acquainted with the notorious Mr. Nelson than she wanted him to believe. And he asked himself why she had felt the need to lie about this.

Shane O'Neill left Yorkshire the following morning.

It was dawn. The mist had rolled down from the moors and the higher fells to spread across the meadows like a mantle of gray lace, partially obscuring the trees and the drystone walls and the cottages nestling in the folds of the fields. And all were inchoate images, spectral and illusory under the remote and bitter sky. Dew dripped from the overhanging branches, glistened on the white wildflowers gleaming in the hedgerows, ran in little rivulets down the grassy banks at the sides of the lane.' Nothing stirred in the drifting vaporous mists, and there was an unearthly quiescence, an unmoving stillness lying over the whole of the countryside, and it was a dreamlike landscape... the landscape of his childhood dreams.

Gradually, from behind the rim of the dim horizon, the early sun began to rise, its streaming corridors of slanting light piercing outward to illuminate the bowl of that cold and fading sky with a sudden breathtaking radiance. And through the tops of the leafy domes of trees, caught in the distant shimmer of sunlight like a mirage, glittered the chimneys of Pennistone Royal. House of his childhood dreams. But there was another house in his childhood dreams... a villa by the sea where they had laughed and played and dreamed away the careless carefree days of their childhood summers, where nothing had ever changed and time had been an eternity.

And she was always there with him... at that villa high, on the cliffs above the sunlit sea, laughter in her eyes the color of the summer sky and gentleness in her smile that had truly been only for him. Dreamlike landscapes... dreamlike houses... dreamlike child of his childhood dreams... locked in his heart and mind for all of time.. haunting him always, dim shadows on his Celtic soul.

He was going away now... so far away... leaving them behind. But he never left them behind. He carried them with him wherever he went... and they would never change... they were his childhood dreams... Paula and Pennistone Royal and the villa by the sunlit sea...

The car sped on down the narrow winding country lanes, past the great iron gates of Pennistone Royal, on through the village of the same name, out now onto the main road. Shane glimpsed the familiar signs flying by... South Stainley, Ripley, Harrogate, Alwoodley.

He slowed down as he roared into Leeds, although there was no traffic, no one abroad, deserted as it was at this hour and without a sign of life. Gray, grimy, vital Leeds, great industrial city of the north, the seat of Emma's power and his grandfather's and David Kallinski's family. ' Circling City Square, where the statue of the Black Prince dominated, he passed the post office and the Queen's Hotel and plunged on, down the short hill near City Station, heading toward the Ml, the road leading south to London. Shane picked up speed the moment he rolled onto the motorway, and he did not reduce it until he was nosing the car over the county boundary... leaving Yorkshire behind.