ones she could only give him every last extra second back in return for the minutes he had freely given her.
It really was only a few yards: the pond was in a natural hollow in the parkland, and she could already see the far side of it, with the near side, hidden by the slope just ahead, no more than a dozen strides away.
Which was just as well, for her last shreds of nerve were running out with time and distance.
One step after another - three, four, five, six -
Now the convenient path she'd been following obstinately refused to take her any closer, dividing to sweep round on each side of it. But that no longer mattered -
But it did matter.
As she stepped off the path on to the carpet of leaves her high heels sank through into the soggy ground beneath. The fall of the slope made the going even more treacherous, and she teetered wildly as first one foot and then the other became trapped, unbalanced equally by the weight of the briefcase and the fear of what might happen if she dropped it.
The cruising ducks on the pond caught sight of her and instantly changed course, quacking loudly in anticipation of food. Their cries awakened other ducks ashore on the far bank, which at once threw themselves into the water, hydroplaning towards her across it on beating wings and feet. The whole pond exploded into a frenzy of greed.
Frances lost contact with one of her shoes.
The ducks hurled themselves towards the scattered papers.
With a convulsive effort Frances freed her other shoe. But as she did so her foot came out of it and her already shoeless foot slid out from under her. She sat down heavily on her bottom, just managing to clasp the briefcase to her breast before she hit the ground.
Both her stockinged feet rose in the air as the weight of the case pushed her on to her back and she instantly started to toboggan down the slope towards the chaos of squabbling ducks and mud-stained papers.
She cried out in terror, but the sound was lost in a crescendo of panic-stricken quacking and wing-beating as she crashed into the ducks.
For a moment there were ducks everywhere: ducks running over her legs, ducks clumsily trying to climb the slope beside her, ducks attempting impossible vertical take-offs, ducks colliding and snapping and splashing in the shallows.
Their panic infected her. She thrust the case away from her, down between her legs into the filthy duck feathered water in which her own feet were immersed ankle-deep.
Then she was scrabbling feverishly back up the slope on her hands and knees -
Her shoes - she must have her shoes - even if there was no time to put them on.
She was running in her stockinged feet - free from the briefcase at last - sobbing and running as lightly as a deer -
Paul Mitchell appeared from behind a beech tree in her path.
'Hold on there, Frances!'
She swerved to avoid him, but he caught the flying edge of her gown and swung her round.
'No - damn you - ' she struggled instinctively, gasping for breath, but he caught her wrist.
'Hold on there!' Now the other wrist was caught. 'It's all right. Princess - it's all right.
We're far enough away if it goes bang ... and it probably won't go bang anyway. But we don't want to create a disturbance, so just calm down - okay?'
Far enough away?
Frances looked back.
She hadn't run away in the same direction by which she had reached the pond; somehow she had veered to the right, away from the main buildings.
And she had also run much further than she had imagined: she couldn't even see the pond now, and the unspeakable quacking was muted.
Paul released her wrists. 'Better put your shoes on. Princess. The ball's not over yet.'
Frances looked down at her feet. Her tights were soaking and muddy. There was a duck-feather - several duck-feathers - stuck to her ankle. Her knees were muddy too.
And her hands.
She caught her breath. 'Sod it!' she said feelingly.
'That's better,' murmured Paul.
By the grace of God she still had her handbag - somehow its strap had never left the crook of her arm. She extracted a handful of tissues from it and tried to wipe her hands.
'Here - ' Paul knelt down and wiped the worst of the mud from her feet with a large handkerchief. 'Now give me the shoes.'
Her relief began to evaporate. She still had her handbag, but she had left her self-respect behind her by the duck-pond, together with the briefcase.
'Foot, please,' said Paul.
Humiliation choked her. She had panicked, and what was worse, she had panicked in front of Paul Mitchell.
'It fits! It fits!' He grinned up at her. 'You are the true princess, and I claim your hand in marriage - '
