What an exciting evening that was! So much was said that it is difficult for me to remember now and in what order. I remember his taking both my hands and looking into my eyes. He said: "We have met before ... in the park."

I nodded in agreement.

"I was on the point of making myself known many times," he went on, "but I hesitated. Now . . . we are together at last."

How amazing it was, I thought, that when I had seen him in the park I had believed him to be a stranger; and he was in fact my father!

During the dinner, at which Cassie and the Countess were present, he talked about his vineyards. He spoke in English and now and then had to grope for the words he needed. He wanted to hear of our salon and the Countess was most voluble on the subject.

She talked amusingly of our clients and the manner in which they followed each other like sheep. One had a Lenore gown and they all must. It was inevitable that she should come to the matter which was uppermost in her mind.

"By hook or by crook I shall get us to Paris," she said. "That is the centre of fashion and worthwhile houses must in time have connections there. It is an essential in the long run."

"I can see that," he said. "And at the moment you have not this . . . connection?"

"No, but we will."

"When do you propose to set up there?"

"When we have the good fortune . . . and I mean fortune . . . so to do," said the Countess. ''I'm all for it but my partners are cautious. They want to wait until we can pay for it. The good Lord knows when that will be."

He nodded gravely and Grand'mere abruptly changed the subject.

After dinner, the Countess and Cassie left him alone with me; and then we spoke in French of which language I had been made fairly fluent by Grand'mere; and of course she was in her natural element.

"I have thought of you often," he said. "I have wanted so much to find you and when your grandmother came to Villers-Mure and I happened to be visiting my family home it seemed like Providence. She told me a great deal about you. How you had this wonderful business. The St. Allengeres always prospered in business."

"Our prosperity is largely due to the Countess, is it not, Grand'mere? She is a superb saleswoman, and she showed us what innocents we were. We should have foundered without her."

"I want to know a great deal about your business. But first let us talk about ourselves. You must understand that I truly loved your mother. It was the shame of my life that I let myself be sent away. I should have stood by her. I should have defied my father. But I was young ... I was weak and foolish. I was not strong enough. I should have married her. Instead I let them send me away."

Grand'mere nodded.

He looked at her and said: "How you must have reviled me when I did."

"Yes," said Grand'mere frankly, "I did. Marie Louise did not blame you. She defended you to me. She said you did what you had to do. Your father was determined and he is a very powerful and ruthless man."

"And still is," he added grimly. "It was good for me to escape from his domination. I found my life among the vines rather than the mulberries. But it is all so long ago."

"And nothing can bring Marie Louise back."

"Perhaps she would have died in any case," I said.

They were silent.

Then he told us how he had gone away to stay with his uncle who owned a vineyard and how he became interested in wine. "I threw myself into the work," he said. "It was a solace. My uncle said that I should be a good vintner. So I stayed with him. Then I had my own vineyards. I worked hard. I married my wife who brought me property, and now we have our family."

"And you are happy?" I said.

"I do not complain. I have a son and a daughter."

"I saw Marie Louise's grave had not been neglected," said Grand'mere.

"I always go there when I visit the family. And I have paid one of the peasants to look after it. If it is possible that she could be aware she will know that I have not forgotten."

He and Grand'mere talked of my mother for a while-how pleased and proud she would have been of me and Katie-whom he had found enchanting. It had delighted him to realize that she was his granddaughter.

"And you have suffered," he said to me. "Madame Clere-mont has told me of your husband's death and how you have devoted yourself to that dear child."

"She is a great joy to me," I told him.

We fell into silence again and after a while he said: "I was interested in what the Countess was saying about your salon, and how she thought you should open in Paris. She is right, you know."

"Oh yes, we know she has a point, but my grandmother and I are against it... for the time being at any rate. We have not been so very long in business here and once ... in the beginning ... we came near to disaster. That has made us cautious.''

"But," he said, "it is a move you must take."

Grand'mere was watching him intently and I had a notion that she knew what he was going to say.

It came. "Perhaps I could be of assistance."

I looked at him in astonishment.

He went on: "It is something I should dearly love to do. I am not a poor man. I have my vineyards. We have good years when all goes well; the weather is kind to us, and the leaf hoppers and the rot worms decide to leave us alone. . . . Then we make good profits. I have not done too badly. I would take it as a privilege if you would allow me to help with this Paris addition."

"Oh," I said quickly, "that is good of you but, of course, we don't want to borrow money. ..."

"How right you are. What does your Shakespeare say: 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be. . . .' But I was not thinking of a loan. You are my daughter. Should there not be these things between a father and his daughter? Let me finance this Paris branch ... as a kind of dowry to my daughter."

I drew back in horror. I looked suspiciously at Grand'mere. She was sitting with her eyes downcast and her hands in her lap. She dared not let me see her face because she knew it would be shining with triumph.

"I could not accept that," I said sharply.

''It would give me great pleasure.''

"Please think no more of it."

He looked at me sadly. "I see you do not accept me as a father."

I stammered: "I have met you for the first time tonight. We cannot count those meetings in the park. And you offer this! Do you realize what such an undertaking would cost?"

"I am of the opinion that it would not be beyond my means.''

"No, no," I said. "It is out of the question. We have a very profitable business here. It is adequate. It gives me a very good return on the capital which my husband left me. I can bring my daughter up if not in luxury-which might not be good for her in any case-in comfort."

"We will think about this."

"No. Please forget it. It is most generous of you and I thank you sincerely. But I cannot accept it."

He bowed his head.

Because I wanted to change the subject I asked him a great many questions about his vineyards. He was full of enthusiasm for them. He talked vividly about the vagaries of the climate and the effect it had. The weather was the great enemy but like many enemies, it could be a good friend. They would despair when the summers were too wet and they prayed in the churches for a warm and sunny autumn which had more than once saved the harvest. He made me feel the excitement of the vendange.

"You will come and see it," he said. "You and the little one. Now that we have found each other we shall not lose each other again. The little one would love the vineyards."

"I am sure she would."

"And what happiness that would bring us."

"But your wife and family?"

"My wife died two years ago. She was older than I. Our marriage worked well enough. My son Georges and my daughter Brigitte are both married. I believe they would be happy to meet you."

I said: "We must come then." I turned to Grand'mere. "Don't you agree?"

She nodded emphatically.

It was late when he rose to go. "I will see you tomorrow," he said. "I may call, may I not?"

"You must call whenever you wish," said Grand'mere firmly.

She came to my room when I was in bed. I knew she would so I was prepared for her. She looked young for her age, with her hair in two plaits like a schoolgirl's, and her plain but elegant dressing gown.

"What a night!" she said. "One to remember."

"It is not every day a girl is presented with a father she has not known before. You arranged all this, didn't you, Grand'mere?"

"Well. . ."she began.

"I know you too well," I said. "Besides, your face always betrays you. It is the most expressive face I know. You went to France intending to find him. You told him he should see me, now didn't you?"

"He didn't need any persuading."

"Then what about all those years ..."

"How could he know where his daughter was?"

"So you told him where I was and that he must come and see me."

"As soon as he knew, he wanted to see you."

"And did you by any chance mention the salon . . . and the fact that there was a question of opening in Paris?"

"The Countess did that over dinner."

"But was it entirely a surprise to him?"

"Well, I might have mentioned ..."

"And now he has made this offer. I fancy it was not something he did on the spur of the moment."

"Why this catechism? Is it not good that he should wish to do this thing?"

"So you suggested it to him?"

She lifted her shoulders. "He wanted to know how you did . . . what was happening ... It was natural that he should wish to hear of his daughter. Oh, enough of this. You must take the money."

"Grand'mere, I couldn't! It is like begging. It is shameful. It is like asking a price from him because he deserted my mother.''

''You think of yourself, ma cherie. You must think of others. This will give him great pleasure. Why should he be denied that because of your pride?''

"Grand'mere, you surely do not want to take his money!"

"Most gladly, would I. It will give us what we need . . . that salon in Paris. I have always known it was necessary for us. I have always said to myself, 'Some day' . . . and now it has come and you are turning away from it."

"I can't take it, Grand'mere."

"So we are all to suffer for your folly. You, I, the Countess, Cassie . . . and your father."

"But surely ..."

She shook her head. "Think of that man. He is beside himself with contrition. He wants a chance to right the wrong he did your mother. It has been on his conscience for years. If he could do this thing he would be so happy. He would feel that he had made some recompense. But Madame Lenore. . . she says No. My pride, my precious pride . . . must come first."

"Grand'mere, how can you put it that way?"

"I put it the way it is. Now I go, my obstinate little mule. Good night. Pleasant dreams. Dream of all the good you could do and which you are refusing because of that foolish pride which is no good to God or woman."

"Goodnight, Grand'mere."

She turned at the door and threw me a kiss.

"May the good God keep you, my precious one," she said.

When the Countess heard of my father's offer she clapped her hands in glee and threw her arms round Grand'mere's neck.

"Do not be too happy," said Grand'mere. "Lenore has decided not to accept."

"What?" cried the Countess.

"Something called pride."

"Oh no!"

"Yes . . . alas," said Grand'mere.

Grand'mere sat rocking from side to side, a smile playing about her mouth.

"That poor man," she said, "that loving father. He is covered in shame because of all that happened years ago. Now he has found her and wants to show her how happy he is. He wants to bestow this outward sign of his joy . . . and his daughter says, 'No. You must go on reproaching yourself.. I am not going to release you one little bit.' Poor man. Pride is a cruel thing. It is one of the seven deadly sins, you know."