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be serious?’
    Gussie’s fingers tightened over the cane arm of her sun-lounger. ‘I am, Mae. I’m going to marry Beau Clay. Just you see if I don’t.’
    â€˜But he’s old ,’ Mae protested. ‘Twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Besides, his girlfriends are all models or film stars. There was a photograph of him in last week’s States Item with Zizi Romaine, the star of Class .’
    Augusta’s thickly-lashed eyes narrowed. ‘I’m going to marry him, Mae. Nothing on this earth is going to stop me.’
    Mae sighed and sipped her Coke. ‘There’s Bradley Hampton,’ she said. ‘He’s always asking you for a date.’
    â€˜Bradley Hampton is a kid.’
    â€˜Bradley Hampton is nineteen and was the finest athlete of his grade: or any other for as long as anyone can remember. And his father is the richest man in New Orleans.’ She didn’t add that his thatch of curly hair and arresting blue eyes also made him the handsomest boy in town. If Gussie couldn’t see that for herself, she had no intention of pointing it out. She had ideas herself where Bradley Hampton was concerned.
    Gussie rose restlessly and crossed to the pool bar. She mixed herself a forbidden Cuba Libre. What if he never paid attention to her again? What if he married one of his sleek, long-legged beauties? The breath was so tight in her chest it was a physical pain. He had to notice her. He had to.
    Mae, sensing that her presence was no longer desired, slipped her sun dress over her bikini and said, ‘I’m going downtown. Are you coming?’
    â€˜No.’ Moodily Gussie stared into the depths of her drink, her cascading hair obscuring her face. ‘See you later, Mae.’
    Mae sighed. There had always been something a little strange about Gussie. ‘Intense’was the word she had heard her mother use. This sudden infatuation with Beau Clay certainly didn’t help.
    Gussie returned to the pool with her drink, glad of her own company. Since meeting Beau she had no thought or time for anybody else. She narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun.
    Beau Clay. Beauregard Clay. Augusta Clay. Gussie Clay. Beau and Gussie Clay. Beauregard and Augusta Clay. The names were etched in fire in her brain. If only – if only …
    If Mae had hoped that Gussie’s infatuation was a momentary phase, she was soon disillusioned. All through the following year Gussie’s obsession grew. A Lafayette, with her stunning looks and impeccable background, she could have had her pick of the young bloods continually seeking the pleasure of having her on their arm. Nevertheless, Gussie rejected them all. They were not worth her while. They were not Beau Clay.
    Mae had tried to reason with her. Beauregard Clay would never look in the direction of a girl as young and innocent as Augusta. His conquests were all women of the world. His tastes did not run to the virginal, even if the virgin was a Lafayette and daughter of one of New Orleans’oldest families. Lafayettes had been prominent citizens in the 1720s when the fleur-de-lis had flown over the city. Beau was uncaring of the family history Charles Lafayette was so proud of.
    Judge Matthias Clay, his father, had fondly hoped that Beau would follow in his older brother’s footsteps – a glittering college record: a brilliant marriage: a career to add lustre to the name of Clay. But Beau had shown total disregard for his father’s wishes. At first, New Orleans society had condoned Beau’s scandalous behaviour, his money, charm and devastating good looks strong ameliorating factors. Yet not even the Clay name and wealth could shield Beau from the eventual disapproval of New Orleans society. Husbands cast suspicious looks at their wives whenever Beau Clay entered the same room. There wasn’t a woman in New Orleans who wasn’t aware of his negligent sexuality.
    The young ones yearned hopefully,