Madame Maxine's Academy for Young Ladies is situated in what had once been a convent on the shores not far from Geneva. It caters for the daughters of moneyed people, who wish their offspring to be groomed for their entry into the world of wealth and fashion, and her pupils are all young ladies in their late teens undergoing the process of "refinement". The curriculum lays emphasis on languages, deportment, dancing and sports, skills that would equip the young ladies for their entry into high society. The girls wear during the day, simple skirts and blouses, when they are not in sports attire, but all dress for a formal dinner in the evening, as part of their training in drawing-room etiquette. The girls learn how to make up a menu, and such things as the correct wines to serve with each course, and how to carry on an intelligent conversation with the most distinguished of guests.

I am met at the airport by the school car complete with attendant governess. I descend from the aircraft clutching my hand luggage in a blur of apprehension. My heavier luggage, which includes an astonishing number of outfits as laid down in the list Carey has been sent, has gone on ahead. 

I feel awkward, lost. I had not enjoyed my first taste of air travel, which had made me feel queasy. 

It is a crisp evening in early autumn. The term begins at the end of September, after a long summer break; a rising mist is hanging over the lake, and the tops of the long range of mountains are shrouded in darkness. The car purrs quietly and smoothly along a long and winding road, and I catch glimpses of chalet-type houses, the window boxes and gardens filled with soft, autumn flowers. 

"It is pretty, is it not?" the governess asks in French, and smiles approvingly when I answer in the same tongue. My accent is horrendous no doubt, but I know enough French to get by; my French tutor would have been pleased with me.

Upon arrival, I am shown into a tiny, box-like bedroom; in fact it had been a nun's cell, which was adequately, if not luxuriously furnished with bright curtains and cover on the single bed. The furniture is light wicker, the wardrobe built into the thickness of the wall, with a long glass mirror in its door. My luggage has arrived and stands on the rack at the foot of the bed. 

"We dine at seven clock," the governess says. "You will change, of course. I will send Chloe to show you round. Madame will see you in her study after dinner." She leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

Alone, my heart sinks. 

Soon, I will have to go down to dinner, and face a table full of strange faces. Strange girls, girls of my own age, are an unknown entity to me, never having mingled with any before. 

I hear a tap on the door, and a young Asian girl comes in. She is already dressed for the meal in a pink chiffon frock, her dark hair curled elaborately upon her head, and looks so adult that I think she must be another mistress.  

"Hello," she says cheerfully in Korean, and breaks into a fit of giggles. "Do not look so alarmed! I am Chloe Lee, I'm Korean, like you, and I hope that we shall be friends." 

"I hope so too," I smile at her gratefully. 

"Do you have a frock to wear to dinner? Something simple, but elegant, and not too trashy?" She laughs. "Madame insists,  but I can tell you now, that what you see me wearing here, isn't my choice..." She makes a grimace. "When I go home, I wear plunging necklines - ah! That's perfect!" For I had taken out a simple white dress,  "That will please Madame, put that one on!" 

The ordeal of facing strangers isn't so terrifying any longer, and in the days and weeks and months ahead, Chloe and I become the best of friends. Throughout the bewilderment of the first term, she is my shield and protector. We could not have been more different; we are opposites, for while she is outspoken and sparkles in company, I am quiet and shy. And sometimes, she would pat me on the back, and say, "You'll surprise us yet, Yiseul; one of these days, once you've learnt to stand on your own two feet, you're going to do something quite wild and extraordinary, just wait and see..." 

And I would smile, a little wistfully, because her words would remind me of the man who had first drawn my attention to my feet, and had also said that I had witch's eyes. 

Nobody in the neighbourhood of Ravenscrag had seemed to know anything about him, though I had made discreet enquiries. Sometimes I wondered if I had dreamed the whole episode. 

My companions are a mixed bag of varying nationalities from all over the world. The Academy caters for rich girls and preferably the wellborn, but in the changing values of the modern world, it is not the aristocrats who have the most money. Madame takes in a few students at reduced fees for a rich, cultural mix. One of these is Chloe, whose father owns a dilapidated chateau, and comes from a distinguished Chaebol family, who have settled down in Switzerland. 

Cousin Mark  has paid for my fees, without any discount,  and I am obliged to do my best. This isn't difficult; I have been sufficiently well grounded by Carrie to find the lessons easy, and I am a good sportswoman, but the social aspect is another matter altogether. 

The girls huddle around, talking about scandalous liaisons with members of the opposite , and passionate trysts with strange, exciting men, and I listen, wide-eyed. My reading, supervised by a succession of governesses, has been mainly classical, and have not included romances or magazines. There has been no television at Ravenscrag and no visits to the cinema. Love, when I think about it, is represented by lifelong union, or - if illicit - by tragedy. My new companions whispering, giggling, their faces flushed with excitement, regaling me with their tales of ardour and passion and lust, seem - well, almost silly.

An Australian heiress, Susan Pine, boasted openly of steamy episodes during the summer break, where she had given her all to her boyfriend, on a hot sultry night, lying on a beach under the stars, the water lapping at their ankles.

"She's lying," Chloe said, when we walked back to our rooms. "I'll bet the hottest thing he's done is to kiss her behind a closed door. I know her father. He's the strictest man alive. There's no way she could have done that."

"But why lie?' I asked, puzzled. 

Chloe shrugged her shoulders. 

"To fool the silly ones and make herself the heroine of a romance, what else?"

I had not told Chloe about my own engagement. For one thing, I had no ring to prove it, and for another, I had not received any letters from my fiance. Chloe would think I was inventing my betrothal to boost my own standing, in the same way that Susan made up her torrid tales. 

"We all yearn for romance. Men are the most exciting thing in life, and to be kissed by a handsome boy. Ah!" She rolled her brown eyes expressively. 

"I don't think being kissed behind a door can be as thrilling as a hike across the moors, with the wind whipping your face, the scent of honeysuckle in your nostrils, and the tang of salt from the sea on your lips." My voice was wistful.

"Ah, but you are quite the little savage, aren't you?" Chloe smiled tolerantly at me. "You lived with your strict old grandfather, didn't you?" She looked at me pityingly. "I'll bet you've never been kissed." 

"I've been kissed," I said, and I felt the hot colour rise to my cheeks. 

Chloe's mouth fell open in shock.