Mistral crossed her bedroom and opened a drawer in the dressing table. In the blue leather box lived with velvet lay the pearls which had belonged to her mother. She took them out and held them in her hands. She stroked them a little and felt that they were warm beneath her touch.
They had been her Mother’s!
Mistral pressed them against her cheek. If only they could talk, if only they could tell her what her Mother had been like and if she would have loved her had she lived. Aunt Emilie would say so little and what she did say was often terribly disconcerting. Why, for instance, had her Mother christened her ‘Mistral’, and why had she been here at Monte Carlo shortly before her own birth?
They were questions which continually presented themselves, but to which Mistral could find no answ
