A Girl Named Smith

A GIRL NAME SMITH Jane Arbor

You could hardly have a more uninspiring name than hers, Mary Smith thought gloomily. And when you are burdened, into the bargain, with a decidedly unglamorous appearance and a quiet, mouselike personality, you might just as well give up trying-at least, as far as the opposite sex are concerned. But Mary’s prospects were not nearly as dull as sne thought, and that day when, in desperation, she asked her boss to pretend to take her out was to set a lot of interesting events in train!

CHAPTER ONE IT was extraordinary, thought Mary. Extraordinary but fortunate— that with one corner of her brain she could concentrate on following the man's smooth dictation while the rest of her mind was busy framing the question she must ask him, trying to anticipate his answer. Why on earth had she uttered those idiotic words last night? What sudden need to assert herself had brought them to her lips, and so invited this morning's absurd doom of her own making? She only knew that, once spoken, she hadn't had the moral courage to recall them or to laugh them off. For one thing, so many people had heard them—at least five of Clare's set, besides Clare, had been there, And for another, though they were at once ready to tease her— ('Mary—stepping out at last?' and 'What price—"She married her boss", eh?')—at least they had believed her, and - then her prick had forbidden her to disillusion them before the brittle talk had shifted interest and it was too late. Now, detachedly, while her practised pencil turned the easy flow of words into shorthand outlines, she was reliving the scene last night, remembering how she had refused to baby-sit for Mona Campion, Clare's best friend, for the third time in a fortnight, and hearing herself stating the lie: 'I'm awfully sorry, Mona, but I can't help you tomorrow night. You see, I'm dining out——' There, knowing it wasn't true, and by the grace of a caution which hadn't lasted, she had checked. But by the sudden hush of astonishment she might as well have announced her intention to take off by moon rocket. And when they had stared—all of them, Mona, Clare, Peter Bryce, someone called Toddy and whoever else was there —she had plunged, head-first and recklessly, into the further enormity which was taking its toll of her courage now.

'Yes. With Mr Derwent, in fact. He's calling for me,' she had said, and had winced under the quips at her expense which had followed. Peter Bryce, Clare's business partner, had contributed an ambiguous, 'Good old Mary—never thought you had it in you!' Toddy had drawled: 'Fast worker, this Derwent chap,' and Mary had hated him for the tone in which he had said it. Mona—somewhat unreasonably, surely?—had murmured, 'I never thought you'd let me down, Mary!' And Clare, from her four years' seniority, had voiced a sharp, 'This man Derwent? You've only taken casual typing from him a few times. Why on earth should he bother to take you out, unless he's—well, that sort?' To which Mary had replied dryly that a mere dinner date wasn't exactly a kidnapping Or an invitation to elope at dawn, was it? And that, as Mr Derwent was calling for her, Clare could vet his respectability when he did. And by the time the teasing had become more kindly before being abandoned, she had almost come to believe the lie herself. In fact, she had nearly been able to justify it, for the way in which it had briefly made her 'one of them'. It had been fun, pretending she was also someone who couldn't accept an invitation without consulting her engagement book. She had even begun to wonder how she had ever allowed people to regard her as merely the good sort, the fillgap, the homebody who just didn't get asked out tete-a-tete with a man, unless he was a cousin or a hand-me-down, an overspill from Clare's mixed bag of men friends. But in her heart she knew how it had happened. And it wasn't altogether because of her lack of striking or piquant looks or even her inability to achieve the sparkling repartee and quicksilver switches of mood which were the currency of Clare's set. It was because, deep down, she really liked the role of 'Good old Mary'. She didn't, at

twenty-three, even resent that 'old' very much either, while she had the inner satisfaction of knowing that she did ordinary things, from typing a perfect manuscript to cooking and babysitting, as well or better, than a lot of other people. So why—in heaven's name, why ?—had she yielded to that spurt of rebellion which even her reason couldn't justify? And though last night she had managed to sleep on it uneasily, this morning here she was, stuck with the consequences! If only she hadn't said Mr Derwent would call for her at the flat! Then she could have slipped out for an evening by herself at a cinema. But she had been rash enough to mention a time which was earlier, Clare said, than she would be leaving. So only two alternatives offered. Either she must concoct another lie, explaining that the date was 'off'. Or she was committed to putting her question, asking her favour—and hearing him say No or, by a miracle, Yes— however mad he privately considered her.. At least she wouldn't have to face him again ... She knew that his present dictation was the last script in his series of lectures to an august engineering body. When he had given it tomorrow he would be leaving the Cavenmore Hotel,' and it would be only natural to lose touch with him, as she must with any other casual client. So give me a chance, thought Mary, and I can smooth it out all right. But let him, she almost prayed of her fate, please let him say Yes. Or, if he must, No—without making me feel too ashamed. He strolled to the window, absently surveying the West End backwater of dignified hotels and exclusive consulting rooms which was Cavenmore Square as he chose the words for his closing paragraphs.

As he stood so, his back was to Mary. But as he dictated over his shoulder, intermittently she could scan a rugged profile of outsize features, and an obstinate contour of jaw seared by a downward line which never quite relaxed even when he smiled. She liked him, and more than ordinarily she would have been sorry when he went away. But as it was, was she going to have to blush inwardly for years, every time she recalled his name? On other occasions she had taken her notes away with her, delivering the manuscript on her next visit. But he had told her he wanted this last script completed before she left. So when he finished speaking with, 'Well, that's the lot,' she was still able to postpone the awful moment while she made a business of opening her portable typewriter and arranging paper and carbons. Over his own task of strapping his brief-case he asked, 'By the way, what made you take up this secretary-on-call idea? Does it pay better than full-time work? Or is it that it gives you more time for stepping out?' Stepping out! Something within Mary grimaced. She said, 'I think it does pay better in proportion. But mainly it suits me because I share a flat with my half-sister who has a full-time job. She's in partnership with a man named Peter Bryce; they run a small stage-costumier business, called Decor. Clare works all sorts of hours; she's awfully artistic and she loathes housekeeping or cooking. So I manage all that side of things for us both, and fit my jobbing secretarial work in between.' 'You and she are on your own? You haven't any other home?' 'I haven't. Clare has—sort of. My mother died when I was small, and my father married Mrs Heron, Clare's mother, when I was fourteen and Clare was eighteen. Then my father died suddenly, and a couple of years later my stepmother married an American and they went

back to Boston. I think if Clare hadn't taken this partnership in Decor she would have gone with them.' 'Meanwhile the present set-up suits you both? And' you haven't any artistic ambitions of your own?' 'Oh no. Not any longer, that is.' 'You had once?' Too late Mary was wishing that his casual interest and her need to keep him talking had not turned back this page of her life. She admitted lamely, 'It was just an episode, no more. By the time I left school Clare already had some contacts with the stage, and I—I suppose I got bewitched by the idea that I might be able to act. There was an endowment insurance which was to pay for my training in something. So I went for a trial term at a dramatic school.' 'And—?' 'At the end of it the Director interviewed me. He hardly criticised anything I had done—either way. Instead he just looked at me rather sadly and said, "Miss Smith—tell me, why don't you get married?"' 'And why didn't you?' her companion invited. Mary stared, half in gratitude, half in pity that he could be so obtuse. That story against herself was well worn with telling, and yet he was the first person ever to miss its ironic point, if he really thought the Director's question had expected a literal answer. In case he did, she set him right by saying gently, 'You don't understand, Mr Derwent. He didn't mean why didn't I get married. Don't you see that it was only his way of telling me that I was hopeless, that I hadn't a clue about acting and never would have?'

'And you accepted the verdict?' 'Oh, yes. I had to. Anyway, it brought me to my senses. After that I used the rest of the money to take a secretarial course, and here I am.' 'Without any lingering regrets for the footlights?' 'None at all. I must have been mad. For one thing, I never had the self-confidence that it takes, and bad actresses must be two a penny, don't you think?' 'I daresay they're cheaper than really efficient secretaries,' he agreed. But he turned the oblique compliment of that into a prosaic 'I must say, when my own Miss Truscott sprang her bout of jaundice, I hadn't expected the management here could put me on to such an able substitute as you've proved to be. By the way, is it usual for you to get a letter of reference after these temporary jobs of yours?' 'People don't always give me one. But if you'd care to, it would be kind.' 'Not at all. I'll let you have one with my cheque in tomorrow's post. Meanwhile, thank you for all you've done for me, and—goodbye.' He was offering her his hand, so she must plunge now or it would be too late! She murmured, 'Thank you'— and then, instead of echoing his goodbye, added, 'Mr Derwent -?' on the slightly husky note her voice always had when she was nervous or upset. 'Yes, Miss Smith?' The query in his raised brows was unhelpful. 'I just wanted -That is, I——' Oh dear, this was a pitiful exhibition! Bracing herself, she struck out in desperation. 'I wondered if I could ask a small favour, that's all.' 'A favour of me? Why not? Go ahead. Anything I can do -'

'Th-thank you. Then if you're not engaged this evening, would you just call for me at, say, about half-past seven, as if—as if you had invited me out with you? Only call for me, I mean. Not—not anything else at all, of course.' The thing was done! But at once she saw the pit that yawned. Instead of either No or Yes, he could ask Why. And how was she going to confess the answer to that one? For the moment, however, he only looked at her. Measuring her, summing her up. Not seeing quite the worst of her, since she had taken off the spectacles she wore while taking notes or typing, but still enough—her near-awkward height, her straight dark hair, the mouth that was too Wide for beauty and the strong framework of her face which gave it an air of being all bones and eyes. Mary knew it all from her mirror only too well. But it was disconcerting to wonder what it told him about her, and what he needed to know before he answered her question. Then suddenly he was saying quite casually and easily, 'I'll do that I'm not booked for anything, and half-past seven will suit me very well. Let's see, though—I know I have your phone number, but do I know your address?' 'No, you don't.' (Neither No nor Why, but Yes, put as tactfully as she could expect, considering what he must be thinking!) Sheer relief took Mary by the throat as she gave him the address of the fiat, adding, 'It's quite near. Just the other end of Manchester Street, off the Square. It's not such an aristocratic district, but there and back, walking, takes only about a quarter of an hour.' 'Thanks, but I don't expect I shall walk.' He pocketed the card on which he had scribbled the address and scanned her face again. 'By the way, if I'm supposed to be taking you out for the evening, oughtn't I to know your first name?' he asked.

Mary flushed. She hadn't looked at the need to elaborate the deception, and she wondered how he had guessed that in Clare's set surnames were things only used on buff forms, and that Clare would think it distinctly odd if he said he was calling for 'Miss Smith'. So, gratefully, 'It's Mary,' she told him. 'Mary.' He repeated it, weighing it as dispassionately as he had measured her looks. Then he said, 'For the record, mine is Clive.' The door had shut behind him before she could utter her belated thanks. But she returned to her typing feeling as if he had thrown his cloak over a puddle at her feet She knew she must expect some further probing from Clare, but now She wasn't afraid of it. Besides, Clare would not be back from work until shortly before the time of her evening date with Peter Bryce and the others, and Mary's experience was that Clare, getting ready in a hurry for a party, wasn't deeply concerned with anything but her own emergencies. When she did return around seven her shoes were kicked off at the door of the living room, her handbag landed in a chair and her passage to her own room was strewn, item by item, with her outdoor things. 'Heavens, what a day! Do stage folk ride their temperaments--or do they?' she breathed. And then irritably to Mary: 'Darling, don't hover. I beg. If there's a drink left after last night, I'll have it. If not, don't say "Have something to eat instead." Because I haven't the time; I'm not hungry, and we're eating at the Theatre Club later.' Mary straightened from her collection of the debris of Clare's progress. 'You do look tired. You really ought to eat,' she said.

Clare grimaced! 'Bless you. Trust you to say "tired" when anyone else would say "wreck"! And—why, bless you again, if that's sherry? It is? Then give—and come and talk to me while I dress.' Had Clare remembered she was supposed to be going out herself? Mary wondered. When she took the sherry to her, she asked, 'Did Mona manage to get a baby-sitter after all?' 'Dunno. If she hasn't phoned to say she can't come, I daresay she did. Oh -' Clare looked up from her easing of twelve-deniers over her ankles. 'I'd forgotten this is your big night. What time is he calling for you? And why haven't you changed yet?' 'I told you, half-past seven. And I am ready, except for my dress.' Mary lifted the skirt of her housecoat to show her slip. 'What are you planning to wear?' 'I didn't quite know. I thought I'd ask you.' (What was the correct wear for being escorted as far as the street, taking oneself to the cinema and timing one's return so that nobody should know one had come home alone?) Clare wrinkled her nose in thought. 'Depends where he's taking you. You don't know? Just dinner? Well, I'd play safe, I think, with that grey-green thing with the flounces. Neat but not gaudy ... What are you doing about your hair?' Mary put a defensive hand to her head. 'What's wrong with my hair?' 'Nothing. As a-gleam with health as a TV commercial could wish. But—if you've been to the Cavenmore this morning, the man has already seen it that way. For a dinner date you should doll it up, experiment a , bit. Here, try this -' And ruffling through an untidy top drawer, Clare selected a ribbon bandeau to throw into Mary's hands.

Mary drew it on gingerly. 'It looks as if I'd forgotten to take off my make-up band,' she said. 'It does not. You pull your hair out round it. So—and so. None at all showing on your forehead, but curving in over the band at the sides. Now -?' Mary surveyed the stranger in the mirror and rather liked her. 'But it's not me,' she hesitated. 'And that,' said Clare with dry devastation, 'was the object of the exercise. You don't have to remind the man that he's taking .out his secretary. And another thing— don't perch those spectacles of yours in order to read the menu. You don't need 'em, and even if you do, you'll flatter him by letting him choose for you. And now, while I make myself into something less than a gargoyle, tell me about him. What did you say he does?' 'He owns a big plant between Southampton and Ring- wood, making agricultural machinery—combine harvesters and tractors and things. He's been in London, lecturing on some revolutionary principles he has for making them in order to capture the European market, and he lives in the New Forest. But I told you all this before.' 'Did you? I'd forgotten. Approximately what age?' 'Oh—in his thirties, I should think. Anyway, younger than you'd expect, considering the success he seems to be. Athletic-looking. Not at all the tycoon type.' Mary found an odd pleasure in describing the man. 'Married, I suppose?' •No,' Mary checked on her way to fetch her dress. 'At least, I'm pretty sure not. He has only-mentioned a sister who lives with him. A good

deal younger than he is, I think. But he hasn't talked about her. It's only my idea.' 'H'm.' Clare's grunt was non-committal. But she added, 'He sounds wholesome enough. But watch your step, young Mary. Bachelors are frequently that way because they're hard types, and you're a lot too naive to be able to manage a tired business man with ideas on filling a spare evening.' 'Which is a beastly thing to say,' retorted Mary. 'It— it's not like that at all.' How little 'like' it was, she almost wished she could explain, if only to convince Clare that Clive Derwent was not that kind of opportunist where she was concerned. Too far from it, in fact... But Clare only said dryly, 'Well, face it, it's not love's young dream burgeoning, is it, between his thirties and your twenty-three? However'—she softened the cynicism with a smile—'I don't need to warn you against going in at the deep end over a mere "Hail and Farewell" dinner date, do I? You did say this was your last day's work for him?' 'Yes. He's leaving London tomorrow.' 'So soon? Well, have a good time. Thank him prettily for the evening, but don't creep with gratitude. He's the privileged one, not you. What time do you expect to be home?' (When I've seen the programme round at the Roxy.). Aloud Mary said, 'I don't know at all. I shan't be late, of course.' 'No.' Clare glanced at her watch. 'You'd better be listening for him. It's nearly half-past.' 'You'll come and be introduced?'

'If he's punctual, I shan't be ready. No, ask him in for a drink when he brings you home, and I'll try to get back.' 'You've just finished the sherry,' Mary pointed out. 'For coffee, then. Coming from you, it'll sound more in character—There's the bell now. You'd better scram. If he's driving, he won't want to park for long. Be seeing you!' A few minutes later Mary found herself being handed into Clive Derwent's car, a sleek affair of black and chromium, the comfort of which she would have liked to enjoy for further than the hundred yards or so which would take her out of sight from the flat. Her companion took the driving seat and swung out from the kerb. 'So much managed to your satisfaction? Where now?' he asked. Mary sat very upright, hands folded over her bag. 'Why, nowhere— Say as far as the next corner but one. You could put me down there.' 'Put you down? I'll do nothing of the kind.' He threw her a glance along his shoulder. 'You engaged me as proxy for this clandestine rendezvous you didn't want your half- sister to know about, and I'm not leaving you in the street. I'm delivering you to it. So if that's clear, where would you like me to take you?' Mary made a little gesture of dismay. 'Please—nowhere,' she repeated. 'I ought to have explained this morning. I mean—I'm not meeting anyone clandestinely, and I don't want to go anywhere in particular.' 'No?' He looked at her again, and for one awful moment she was afraid he thought she had meant to cadge a dinner date with him and now had cold feet about it. But he went on, 'Then what do you intend to do with your evening? Can you tell me that?'

'I—thought I'd go to a cinema by myself.' 'An escort home again not being necessary to your plans?' 'No. That is, Clare has gone out with a party, and I can time getting back so that she won't know I was alone. You see -' By the flick of light from a street lamp she saw the line at the corner of his mouth tighten. He said, 'I don't, I'm afraid. But I've an idea I'd like to.' And then, at her sudden movement—'No, save it for now. Now, as we're both free for the evening, we'd better have dinner together.' He drove to a restaurant Mary knew only by repute but where he seemed to be well known. The place was crowded, but the head waiter made nothing of finding a well placed table for them and continued to hover attentively throughout the meal. During it Mary's tension relaxed a little. She was always at ease when listening, and Clive Derwent talked well. But with the arrival of the coffee, the reckoning was upon her. After a short silence he said, 'Now do I—or don't I—rate the privilege of hearing what all this was about?' She raised reluctant eyes to his. 'Of course you do, Mr Derwent. I'd have explained this morning, if you'd asked me.' 'This morning I thought I knew—namely, that you wanted me to act as your cover for a secret date. Didn't you realise that was what I should think?' 'I do now. Actually -' But there she baulked for so long over the shame of admitting it was exactly the opposite that he had to prompt: 'Won't you go on? It can't be so very difficult, surely?'

She tried again. 'It—it's me, you see. The kind of person I am. I'm shy and—no oil painting in the way of looks -' She flinched under his swift, appraising glance and hurried on: 'I'm not terribly good at parties, and usually I'd rather not go than risk being a wallflower if I do. I've never needed to tell anyone so, but I suppose that kind of attitude gets through. With the result that by now people don't even expect me to make dates of my own.' 'Dates with men?' 'No, any dates. Anything at all, in fact, which would keep me from being handy for baby-sitting or filling in at the last minute, or helping them to dress and having hot soup ready when they come home -' 'In other words, Cinderella Mary Smith—eh?' 'No!' She rejected the suggestion with vigour. 'Clare is no Ugly Sister, and through her I meet quite a lot of interesting people. Besides, I think I rather like being—well, always there for her and for our friends when they want me.' 'And you're sure, are you, that you're not the faintest bit smug in this homespun role of yours?' 'Smug? Am I? No, I don't think so. Don't you see that if I were selfsatisfied about it, I shouldn't have rebelled as I did?' He nodded. 'I begin to get the rough picture. For some reason you did revolt against being On-Demand-Mary and let fly with a claim to an engagement you hadn't yet arranged? Whereupon half-sister Clare was gratifyingly stunned?' 'Not only Clare. There was quite a crowd there as well. That was what made it so difficult. I could have laughed it off to Clare alone.'

'But why pick on me? Mightn't you have carried more conviction if you'd planned your battle strategy better? Say, by choosing a young man of your own set, even if you had to prime him first?' Mary shook her head. She did not know what impulse had chosen him, but only that instinct had warned her against choosing anyone who might later think it funny to tell the story against her. She said, 'There was nothing planned about it. Mona Campion, a friend of Clare's, was assuming that I would baby-sit for her as usual, and suddenly I heard myself saying, "I'm sorry, but I'm dining out with Mr Derwent." Just like that, as you've guessed. And when they believed me, I simply hadn't the courage to admit that I'd said it and chosen you quite at random.' 'Straight out of the hat, in fact.' Her companion's tone was dry. 'Supposing, though, I'd had a previous engagement for tonight? What then?' 'I don't know. That was a risk I had to take.' 'Why had you? Why was it so very important to you?' Mary looked at him, wondering if the vital self-confidence that was written all over him had ever known what it was to 'lose face'. She said, 'I've tried to explain. My pride hated the thought of admitting it wasn't true.' He waved that aside. 'Yes, that I can understand. But further back— why this sudden need to trade yourself in for a new model? Sheer impulse, you say. But how, for goodness' sake, did it help to claim a mere dinner engagement with me?' 'I must have been mad to think it could. But while— just for that instant—I was mad, I suppose I thought Clare and the others would see something—well, romantic in it.'

'Romance—from a single invitation out to dinner?' 'I know!' she agreed with him wretchedly. 'It was idiotic, but for a moment it made them aware of me as something more than a kind of—of institution, a building they pass every day and look at, but have never really seen since the first time.' 'And you actually thought you could change all that with this one bid for attention?' 'If that was what I wanted, I had to begin somewhere,' she pointed out. 'I'd still have expected you to know that you can't order up romance, or time it, or send it packing at will-—' But at that Mary's endurance snapped. 'Please, Mr Derwent, need we go on? I do realise that, so far as I'm concerned, a "new model" as you call it, isn't to be had for the wanting. And if I haven't convinced you that I was only laying claim to—to an illusion of romance, then there's no more to be said than that I realise I had no right to involve you, and that I'm sorry.' With fingers which trembled she picked up her bag, hoping he would take the hint that she wished to leave. He signalled their waiter and signed the chit which was brought to him. Then: 'Just the illusion, eh? Well, that shouldn't be too difficult -' which left her puzzled and embarrassed as they returned to his car. There he turned to her. 'Now where shall we go on? Somewhere where we can dance? Or would you prefer a cabaret?' (So that was it—the 'illusion of romance'! Stuck with her, he must be saying, 'In for a penny—I'll give her one romantic evening, or know the reason why!') Mary moistened her lips in distaste.

'Neither, thank you, Mr Derwent. You've been too kind already by taking me out to dinner, and I'd like you to take me home if you will. You don't have to overdo your effects any further, you know.' 'And need you,' he retorted, 'back-pedal quite so violently on yours at my expense?' 'At your expense?' 'Exactly. After all, you encroached on my evening, not I on yours.' 'But you said you hadn't any engagements!' 'Neither I had. But I daresay I could have filled an evening in the West End adequately enough.' He showed her his watch-face. 'Ninethirty—not exactly a witching hour, is it? Nor even'—his ironic smile came and went— 'the traditional time for Cinderellas to disappear!' 'I never posed as a Cinderella!' 'No, I remember you didn't. I apologise. Miss Indispensable—that's more the picture, isn't it?' He broke off and straightened in his seat. 'All right—I'll take you home.' But Mary resolved not to be outdone. Not looking at him, she said, 'No, please—— We'll go on somewhere instead, if you want to.' There was a tiny silence. Then: 'I can't accept the sacrifice!' 'It—it's not a sacrifice. I'd like to,' she said, defying the mockery of his tone. He switched on. 'Then we go, not as kidnapper and shanghaied captive, but as friends?'

Mary braced herself to face his scrutiny. 'As friends, please.' She felt oddly rewarded and reassured by the smile which, this time, went all the way.

CHAPTER TWO FOR the next three hours or so Mary actually contrived to forget that there must be a tomorrow when Clive Derwent would have left London without a backward thought for her and when she would have to remember the pleasantest evening of her life as one on which, so to speak, she had gatecrashed. For the moment she sunned herself in the brief fancy that she was indeed the Quite Important Person which his escort made of her, and from a glance she caught of herself in a mirror, bright-eyed and eager as they danced, she felt she was not doing him too much discredit either. They danced at a club where he was received with as much deference as at the restaurant. They went on somewhere else to watch some exciting flamenco, and finished up at a coffee bar on a houseboat moored on the river near Chiswick. It was striking one as they alighted from the car outside the flat, and Mary remembered Clare's suggestion that her companion should come in and be introduced. 'You'll come up and meet Clare?' she asked, willing him to say Yes, so that the evening needn't end quite yet... But he- shook his head. 'I think not, if you'll excuse me. I'll see you safe and then go along, if I may.' So this was the end after all. He didn't sound as if he was to be persuaded, so she wasn't to have the final satisfaction of showing him off to Clare. Disappointed, she began to rehearse her thanks on the way up to the flat and wasn't ready with them when she saw his hand held out for her key. 'Oh -' The fragile poise the evening had achieved for her was ebbing and her nervous search for the key in her bag sent the latter and most of its contents scattering over the paved hallway. Clive Derwent stooped, gathered them in what looked like a single movement,

handed compact, lipstick and other items back to her, but paused at her spectacle case. 'You haven't worn these things all evening,' he commented. 'No. Some time ago I began to have a few headaches through eyestrain. But I only use them for close work— typing or reading small print.' 'You don't take to them by way of disguise, then?' 'Disguise?' He slid the case into her open bag. 'I was wondering --' he said cryptically. 'Ever see the kind of film where the heroine wears colossal hornrims right up to the point -where the plot requires her to be revealed as a raging beauty? And I should imagine it's been used as a gimmick in real life before now.' 'I daresay.' She smiled wanly. 'But as I've no raging beauty to hide, I'm afraid I wouldn't know.' 'Sorry. I forgot you had yourself labelled "No oil painting"!' he mocked. 'It's all part of your "No Nonsense About Me" role, I suppose, that you mustn't miss any chance to disparage your looks?' 'I'm only accepting them as a fact.' 'Rubbish. You've merely made a habit of using your fixed idea of them as a kind of whistling in the dark to ward off criticism before it's been voiced.' 'It doesn't have to be voiced. Only looked-—or not looked, which is worse. And what's so wrong with whistling in the dark, anyway?'

'Nothing at all. We all have to work up false courage over some things. But I won't accept that a woman ever completely resigns herself to the looks she was born with. In her secret heart she never really believes she is as homely as all that.' 'You mean—she never quite loses hope?' 'I don't know about hope. It's faith she hangs on to. And of course she's right there, because I don't suppose one woman in a hundred goes right through life without being told by one man—if only one—that she's lovely enough for him.' Mary shook her head. 'I think some women do. And it wouldn't help much, would it, unless it was the right man who said it?' 'Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it raise her morale by so much as one degree?' 'I don't know. It might. It would depend on how sincerely it was said, or whether she had to suspect it was just an—an exercise in flattery.' At that he laughed aloud. 'You bend over backwards to create difficulties, don't you? However, I'm challenged -How about hearing that chocolate-box prettiness doesn't appeal to me? That I happen to like faces which aren't afraid to show their bones, and that I consider you've got a smile rather like the Mona Lisa's without its load of mischief? Would that help, or would you reject it as flattery you couldn't accept?' 'I think it would help.' 'Well, there you are! Morale on the up-grade already! So far, so good. But I can add further point if you like -' And he bent forward to kiss her very lightly on the cheek.

Her fingers flew to the spot. 'You—you shouldn't have done that!' she faltered. 'Why not? It was only to emphasise my argument that to the right man you'll be as infinitely kissable as any other woman. You can't possibly take offence. It was a very pure kiss, completely without ulterior motive.' 'Then why did you do it?' Perversely she was disappointed. 'I told you—I was only acting as stand-in for some hypothetical chap In your future who'll do a great deal better. As I could myself in different circumstances -' 'Better—with the right woman for you, you mean?' 'Naturally—with my own "right woman",' he confirmed gravely. Without another word he held out his palm for her key and opened the door for her. She hesitated. 'I don't know how to thank you, Mr Derwent. Not just for a lovely evening, but for—for everything.' 'Then don't try. And if I were you I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry to abandon a good old model for a flashy new type. Because I've an idea that quite a lot of people may like Mary Smith just as she is.' The next minute she was alone behind the closed door, listening to his footsteps echoing away down the hall. When the lift gate clanged shut, taking him and his particular brand of quixotic kindness out of her life, she felt more than regret for the rare treat of the evening that was over and wouldn't happen again. For with his going it was as if he had left her groping for an anchorage which suddenly wasn't there any more.

She would find it again. She must! She still had work, Clare, all the small contentment which had been enough until now. But she did not know why the everyday humdrum which she had enjoyed and which would go on exactly as before should suddenly look—empty, just because a man to whom she meant nothing had been kind ...

But how soon and how drastically nothing was to go on for her as before she did not learn until the next morning. Overnight Clare had not kept her promise to come home in time to meet Clive Derwent. She had not returned until long after Mary was in bed. But Mary had regained some of her sense of proportion by doing what she called "Clare chores" as usual—dealing with the trail of feminine jetsam in Clare's room, closing wardrobe doors and putting milk and biscuits on the bedside table. And this morning she was looking forward to describing her evening with complete truth. Clare would question her and she would answer with an airy, 'I didn't get in till after one myself. We had dinner at Svengali's first; then we went on to a club called Sirocco to dance. And afterwards -' following it up with anything else Clare wanted to know. It was frustrating, therefore, when Clare spoiled everything by failing to ask any- questions. She came to breakfast in her dressing-gown and flicked through the letters at her place, evidently in search of a particular one—an airmail from Boston, Mary noticed. Absorbed in it, she did not as usual share her mother's news with Mary, whose own post had brought her only the chilly comfort of Clive Derwent's promised cheque and testimonial. She was as glad of the latter as she was of the money, but its formal phrases only emphasised that the distance between them hadn't really been bridged last night.

Clare ate nothing but a half-slice of toast and before Mary had finished her coffee she was smoking. Yes, yes— she was quite well. Mary would please not fuss! And— intercepting Mary's glance at the clock—there wasn't any hurry; she was taking an hour off because there was something she had to tell Mary. In fact—at last, Clare threw her bomb with aggressive bravado—she was giving up the flat and going over to America! She forestalled Mary's bewildered questions. No, it wasn't a break with Decor. But Peter Bryce was sending her on a wardrobe and design alignment to a theatre group going over to tour the cities of New England. Her mother's letter had welcomed the suggestion that she should make Boston her pied-a-terre for the indefinite time she would be in the United States. So Mary must see that it would be madness to incur the expense of the flat while she was away? Especially as—again on that defiant note— she might not be coming back. 'Not come back?' Mary felt as if she had been slapped in the face— hard. For how little had their working partnership meant to Clare, if she could cut across it with this roughshod decision, made in secret and stated so far without a word of regret for its effect on herself? And wasn't Peter Bryce to have a say in whether or not Clare returned to England at the end of her assignment? In answer to that question Clare said, 'He'd like me to come back, naturally. But equally he could hardly blame me if I found a better opening while I'm over there. Meanwhile, I'm taking the opportunity to see America on an expense account and nobody—but nobody!—is going to stop me!' Mary sighed. 'And you go—when?' 'I can get a passage next week.'

'You've already arranged it, giving me practically no notice at all?' 'Yes—well, I knew you wouldn't want to stand in my way. But obviously you can't afford to keep on this flat alone, so I thought you'd probably take a room in a hostel, or go to that uncle and aunt of yours in Birmingham. The way you're placed, you can always work up new connections. Or there's no reason, I've been thinking, why you shouldn't now take a full-time job.' 'I'm surprised you've "been thinking" about me at all! Clare, didn't you owe it to me to tell me you were considering this move?' Mary could not keep reproach out of her tone. 'If I'd told you, you're such an incurable sentimentalist that you'd have fogged the whole issue with "feelings" and "owings" as you're doing now. And I know you'd have contrived to make all this—our set-up here—appear much more important than it is.' 'Well, isn't it important? Haven't you been happy here?' 'If I have, I don't have to take permanent root in it. Things move on, Mary. People move out. just because you're content \with your groove, why make me sound guilty for wanting to get out of mine? I suppose you want me to say I shall miss having you around?' 'Not if you can't mean it.' 'But I can. You look after me like a broody hen, and you've the happiest knack of coping with domestic crises. But then,' Clare added, destroying the value of her tribute completely, 'you just happen .to be that type, and- you wouldn't cope as you do if you didn't get a whale of a lot of satisfaction out of it. Anyway, I'd say you're never likely to want for someone or other to mother. And I -'

But there, Mary guessed, Clare had enough grace to stop short of claiming that, once she was footloose and successful, she could buy all the personal service she needed. Clare wounded people through thoughtless self-interest, not through malice. She couldn't know, after all, how her news had caused the ground of Mary's small world to give way underfoot, nor appreciate Mary's sense of having been betrayed ... As ever, Mary found it easy to make excuses for Clare, and on a too familiar uprush of love and generosity she stretched a hand across the table and pressed Clare's. 'Don't worry about me. I shall be all right,' she said. 'Bless you. I really am going to miss you.' Momentarily Clare's eyes were suspiciously bright. But at once she went on to discuss the practical details of their parting, and Mary soon found she was committed to inviting herself for an indefinite stay with relatives she hardly knew, in a tiny house already crowded to the doors. The alternative—the community life of a hostel—she knew she could not face. She needed the kind of niche a home provided, even if it. wasn't her own. After that there was little time for thinking, for memories, for regrets. The flat was nominally furnished, but they had each added pieces of their own which they sent to store while they camped out with the bare essentials which remained. Clare's days were hectic with travel arrangements and clothes buying, so that Mary had all the work of sorting, clearing up and giving notice to their tradesmen. She had the impression that she and Clare hardly met, and that when they did she never had Clare's full attention. But the fact that Clare was already mentally on her way across the Atlantic had its merits in one way. For Mary, unknown to Clare, hadn't yet written her crucial letter to Birmingham. She must go there. She hadn't any choice. But as it was not possible to hand over the keys of the flat until the day after Clare's departure,

Mary allowed her to believe that she would be going straight to Birmingham when this was done. But she didn't mean to. Not for a few days, anyway. She would go to a hotel, write to her aunt and take a short breathing space in which to look at a future which wouldn't contain Clare. Clare might be able to slough concern for her, for Peter Bryce and for her past almost as soon as her plane had left the airport. But Mary couldn't do the same. 'Out of sight, out of mind' was simply not in her nature and she must have a small respite between her old life and the new. And then, on their last full day together, Clare did something that was unnecessary yet quite typical. By way of paying a debt that wasn't to be measured in terms of money, she insisted on sweeping Mary off to a farewell shopping spree for clothes at her, Clare's, expense. 'I'm going to do you proud for Birmingham, young Mary,' she promised, and proceeded to buy her two evening dresses, a trouser suit, cotton frocks, separates, tights and some attractive luggage. Touched but protesting, Mary followed from showroom to showroom. She didn't need the things, she told Clare. What use would she have for even one new evening dress, when she wouldn't know a soul in Birmingham who would ask her out? Clare knew she didn't care much about clothes—and so on. All in vain. Clare spent money with a generosity not far short of wanton, and Mary knew she must accept the gesture in the spirit of its making. Clare's conscience was at work and this was her way of salving it. The next morning Mary and Peter Bryce saw her off at Heathrow and when they repaired afterwards to the restaurant for luncheon, Mary realised that Peter wanted to break it to her gently that he did not expect Clare to come back. At first they both worked hard at pretending she would. But Mary guessed Peter knew Decor had said

goodbye to Clare, and towards the end of a meal which might as well have been sawdust in her mouth, he said as much. 'Clare will go far. She always meant to get ahead, and it wasn't fair to try to keep her back,' he muttered, stirring his coffee. 'You mean you'll let her break her contract with you— just like that?' Mary asked in surprise. He shook his head. 'It won't come to that, I hope. We shan't see her in England again, I think. But she's gone with the idea under her hat that it'll be possible to start a Decor branch over there. And of course if she can do-it, I'll let her have the running of it. Meanwhile, I'm afraid she has treated you like Little Orphan Annie, hasn't she, Mary? How do you plan to make out?' Mary told him and found he showed more concern for her immediate future than Clare had. Had she funds enough? How soon after vacating the flat was she going to her relatives? Perhaps he would be able to see her off. To her surprise, he even remembered to ask about her evening with Clive Derwent, and though recalling it was like trying to light a damp squib, she was grateful that he didn't seem to think it odd that she had had a tolerable success. Peter said, 'You're a lot too modest. D'you know that? Comes of living in the shadow of a super-vivacious person like Clare, I suppose.' Mary shook her head. 'No. My being a nondescript has nothing to do with Clare. And if it weren't for her, I shouldn't have met even as many people as I have.'

'But without making as much impact on them as you should.' Peter sat back and looked at her. 'For instance, I'm realising I've never really seen you until now.' 'I know. People don't. But you can't blame Clare for that.' It hasn't been her fault, I grant you. She never deliberately outdid your effects. But she managed to bewitch people into ignoring you, and in a different way she has bewitched you too. Into actually liking being ignored, I mean. It's probably going to do you a power of good to get out from under Clare, young Mary.' Mary drew a long, tremulous breath. 'I wasn't grumbling,' she said. A few minutes later she told him she had a lot of clearing up to do in the fiat, and he. offered to drive her back. 'You'll keep in touch? Let me know when you hop it for Birmingham?' he asked. But as she thanked him and watched him drive away she knew she was regretting seeing the last of him only because he had been her last link with Clare. She changed into a shirt and a faded pair of jeans and set to work on the flat which, cleared of Clare's belongings and most of her own, had an air of already having done with them both. After tomorrow it would be empty, waiting to be somebody else's home. In order not to think about it, she followed Clare's journey as far as her imagination would take her, while she cleaned windows and spread dustsheets for the last time. She was tired, hot and grubby when she had finished. Then the doorbell rang. Now who—since all their set knew Clare had gone and there were no more tradespeople to call? Wiping her hands down her jeans and

flicking off her dustcap so that her hair stood out on end, she went to the door, opening to— of all unexpected people—Clive Derwent! At sight of her he said, 'Good. I didn't know whether I should find you at home after I'd telephoned earlier and got no reply. That would be about one o'clock.' 'I'm sorry. I was out to lunch.' As she stood aside, inviting him in and trying not to remember that when they had parted at this door ten days ago he had kissed her, she saw that he was drawing conclusions from her scarecrow appearance and the denuded flat. 'You appear to be indulging in a mammoth springclean,' he commented. 'No. Moving house. We're leaving here and I have to hand over the keys tomorrow.' He took the chair she indicated. 'Leaving? Going where?' Mary explained briefly and he heard her out. Then: 'And how does it feel to be on the brink of the freedom you wanted?' he asked. 'The freedom I wanted?' Need he have reminded her of a moment's rebellion which, he had been at pains to agree with her, was a nonsense best forgotten? He said, 'Well, didn't you? The last time we met, weren't you chafing against what you thought then was a life sentence as shock-absorber to sister Clare and her friends?' 'Not really,' she protested. 'I told you I was quite happy. And when you—helped me out that night, you as good as said you thought I must have been mad.'

'I did nothing of the sort. I merely criticised your blindfold dip into the romantic hat. I thought you ought to be warned that next time you might pick someone who'd expect to be allowed to write the rules of the game himself.' 'Oh, Mr Derwent, there won't be a "next time"—like that!' 'No? I'm glad. As for the rest, I know you claimed you had a lot of blessings to count. And it looks as if you were sincere, if you're really not grateful to be released from acting as a leaning-post for Clare.' 'Grateful? I'm certainly not. I'm going to be very lost without her.' His expression softened. 'But what about Birmingham? No scope there for you as a universal aunt?' Hoping he wasn't laughing at her, Mary said, 'There may be. My three nephews are quite a handful, I believe. But I shall have to get a job too, of course.' 'And you're already committed to going to Birmingham? You wouldn't consider an alternative?' Mary hesitated. 'I'm not really committed. I haven't written to my people yet. But an alternative job? Do you know of one for me, Mr Derwent?' 'I came up to London today with the view of offering you one,' he corrected. 'It's the preparation of a manuscript for publication, and if you had agreed it would have been possible, though not too convenient, for you to do it here and send it back to me in sections. But now, in your changed circumstances, I'd like to suggest you should come down to Kingstree, my house, and do the work there instead. It would suit me very much better than haying to keep in continual touch with you here, so what do you say?'

Impulse prompted Mary to tell him that she found the suggestion very attractive indeed. But caution said aloud, 'I don't quite know. What kind of a manuscript is it? And how long do you think the work on it would take?' He shook his head. 'I can't tell. A couple of months— perhaps more. But as I'm not likely to throw you out into the snow if you can finish sooner, a week this way or that needn't matter, I hope. It's not a manuscript of my own, you understand. It's a trust that's been left with me by a friend who died recently—that I should get it prepared for the publication he couldn't live to see. He—Alan Cabord— lived in South Africa, and he planned this book as his passionate protest against the threatened extinction of much of African wild life of which I daresay you've heard.' 'I've read that the sanctuaries may be absorbed into farmland, and there have been television programmes about the frightful toll of ivory poaching that goes on,' Mary said. 'Exactly. And Cabord's crowning effort in his lifelong campaign was to be this book which he has left to my charge/ But I must explain that the mass of his material needs more than mere copy typing. It's complete as to the text, but it calls for something not far short of editing in the course of typing; caption writing for the illustrations and so on. In fact, work that involves frequent reference to me and, through me, to the publishers who are commissioning it. So you'll see, I daresay, why it would be better for you to come down to Kingstree while you work on it?' 'Yes, of course. And it sounds so worthwhile that I'd love to try, if you really think I can do it to your satisfaction, Mr Derwent.' 'I shouldn't have asked you if I thought you couldn't,' he countered. 'My only doubt was the inconvenience of our keeping in touch if you

weren't able to leave London and your half-sister. But now you are free—when can you. come down?' This time Mary let impulse take over. Suddenly she hadn't any need of a respite ... She said, 'I could manage tomorrow, if that would suit you?' He nodded agreement. 'I have to go back myself tonight. But you'll find there's a good train from Waterloo at two- thirty and I'll get Nella, my sister, to meet you at Ringwood, our nearest station.' As he rose—'By the way, we haven't talked terms. Would you accept the same hourly fee as you had at the Cavenmore, with your residence at Kings- tree thrown in?' Mary protested, 'Oh no! For continuous work and in a resident job that would be much too generous!' 'It's what I'm offering,' he said coolly. 'Besides, I'll admit I'm hoping you can throw in something extra for me, apart from your work on the manuscript.' 'Something extra -?' 'Yes—as a companion for Nella. You'll be free to choose your own hours for work; I'm frequently away, and you should have plenty of chances to get to know each other. But I ought to warn you that you may not find her welcoming or co-operative. A few months ago she suffered a sharp tragedy, and since then she simply isn't trying.' 'I'm sorry. Poor Miss Derwent! What happened?' Mary asked. 'She lost her fiance in'—a tiny check—'violent circumstances. He crashed his car and was killed a week or two before the wedding day, and Nella, as I say, isn't attempting to pick up any threads or face the future yet.'

'But only a few months? Isn't it rather too early to expect her to?' 'Yes, perhaps. And she isn't letting anyone help her so far. Besides myself, there are people who are willing enough, God knows. But she has closed down against all of us, and it has occurred to me that someone like you—a stranger, someone without any associations for her and without personal ties to anyone in our circle—might help her more than we can.' Unreasonably chilled by that detached description of herself, Mary agreed slowly, 'Yes, it is easier to confide in a complete outsider than in anyone who one really cares for -' There, seeing him watching her, one inquiring eyebrow raised, she broke off. Even before his smooth query, 'Well, I imagine you found that yourself, didn't you?' she felt colour rising in her cheeks. Why had he to harp so on 'that night', when he must know she wanted to forget it? Certain aspects of it, anyway ... But without waiting for her to reply he had risen and was saying, 'By the way, I'd like you to dine with me tonight if you're free. Can you?' Her heart missed a beat. This time he was asking her! But a silly hope receded as he went on, 'You see, I'd supposed you would have to do the work here, if you were taking it on. So as I've some of the Cabord papers with me, we may as well look over them this evening. So—the writing-room at the Cavenmore at seven? Good. We'll put in an hour on them and dinner afterwards. You won't be late. I want to get away from London myself by half-past nine.' Which puts me back—if ever I emerged!—exactly where I belong, thought Mary when he had gone. She suspected he would send for an office file or switch on a dictaphone with about as little ceremony. But rather than that, with only an hour at his disposal, he had

suggested making a start on the Cabord papers only because he guessed she must spend the evening alone in the empty flat! Whatever she wanted of him, she told herself as she changed, it was not his pity! Whatever she wanted, certainly not that...

It was as well that she had abandoned beforehand any hope of the evening as a social occasion. For it would not have survived the strictly business session with the Cabord manuscript and the impersonally despatched meal which followed. She had been back in the flat by nine and in bed by ten. And now, nearing her destination the next day, she was thinking that her last contact with Peter Bryce had been almost rewarding by contrast. She had rung him from Waterloo to tell him of her change of plans and he had sounded very glad for her. They had talked for quite a long time, and then, as she was about tp ring off, he had said unexpectedly, 'You know, I think you should forget my advice to try to burst out all over, now you're free of Clare. You're as wholesome as—what shall I say?—good bread, I think. So don't change, will you?' as if it really mattered to him that she shouldn't. Making quite a personal favour of it, where Clive Derwent had made it the merest cool advice ... At Ringwood no one met the train at the platform and in the station yard only one car was waiting. It was a convertible with its hood down and presumably the girl leaning back against a door panel, arms folded and slimmest of ankles crossed, was its driver. But— Nella Derwent, described by her brother as despairing and withdrawn into her tragedy, surely not? Even though he had not given Mary a clue as to her age or appearance, Mary could not believe that the shining creature standing by the car was Nella.

This girl—of about Clare's age, Mary judged—was so perfectly, too perfectly! right in her setting. Even the informality of the open sharkskin shirt and pale grey jeans was a studied carelessness like that of a fashion model's and made Mary's neat suit dowdy by comparison. And of her looks—skin like warm honey; copperglinting hair; curves in all the right places—Mary knew Clare would have commented, 'it's just not fair competition, that's what!' Certainly nothing about her poise gave a hint of sorrow or bitterness that was beyond her control. Yet obviously she had been awaiting the London train, and now she was coming over, hand outstretched. 'You must be Clive's Miss Smith? You are for Kings- tree?' ('Clive'? Then she was Nella!) Mary smiled and said, 'Yes, I'm Mary Smith. Er—Miss Derwent?' The other girl's long throat arched as she gave a little laugh. 'I— Nella? Good heavens, no. Of course, though, you were expecting her to meet you, weren't you? But I've had to come instead. My name is Crispin, Leonie Crispin. I'm Clive Derwent's fiancee -Is that all the luggage you've got? You can manage it alone? All right. Let's go.'

CHAPTER THREE CLIVE DERWENT'S fiancee! As she followed the ether girl to the car Mary wondered why she had assumed that he was heartwhole and unattached; that his 'right woman' didn't yet exist for him. It had been nothing he had said or omitted to say. Just a preconceived idea of her own which had exploded ... She said awkwardly, 'I'm sorry, Miss Crispin. I didn't know. Mr Derwent hadn't mentioned you to me -' Leonie Crispin switched on. 'Was there any reason why he should? You've only come down to do some typing for him, haven't you?' The lack of pause between the two questions was a direct snub which did not escape Mary. She thought it wise to answer only the second one. 'Actually to arrange a manuscript for book publication,' she said. 'Oh yes, Alan Cabo£d's stuff. I met him once. He came to lecture in Nairobi. Something of a fanatic and more than a bit of a bore on his pet subject, I thought. And what a weird notion of Glive's— importing you just for that! What's wrong with unloading the thing on a typing agency and letting them get on with it?' 'Because it needs more than typing,' Mary explained. 'Editing too, in a way.' 'And are you qualified to do that?' 'I don't know. I hope so, and I'm awfully anxious to try, I love all animals and I've got a tremendous sympathy for the subject.' Hoping that did something to offset her companion's careless dismissal of the dead man's life work, Mary went on: 'You mentioned Nairobi? Do you come from Kenya?'

'Not originally. I spent a few years out there. Since I've been back in England I've been living with my aunt at a place called Queen's Beeches, about a mile from Kingstree. My cousin, Barney Ford, runs his own riding stables and Nella Derwent schools some of his horses for him.' A pause. 'Has Clive told you anything about Nella, by the way?' 'You mean -?' Mary hesitated. 'About Ricky -Rickman Curtis, her fiance, and the way he died? And about Nella's morbid kind of obsession since?' 'Mr Derwent only said her fiance had been killed in a car crash and that she didn't seem to be able to get over it yet.' 'Able to get over it? She isn't even trying. Instead she's hanging on to it almost as if she enjoyed it. The accident made quite a local sensation and she got a lot of sympathy at the time. But personally I think someone ought to tell her that limelight of that sort never outlasts the next scandal which happens along. Besides, she's no age—not eighteen for two or three months. Surely she doesn't intend to trail clouds of bereavement for the rest of her life?' The sheer lack of imagination which made such comment possible shocked Mary to her core. She said quietly, 'But isn't it because Miss Derwent is so young that she can't believe she is ever going to get over it? Had she been engaged long?' 'No. Only about four months. Clive, who is Nella's legal guardian, didn't like Ricky and was dead against it. He thought she was too young; and of course she was, for a man of Ricky's experience. She isn't quite eighteen yet. Anyway, when she threatened to elope, Clive agreed to a year's engagement. Then Ricky was killed -But really I think Clive should have briefed you about Nella!'

Mary said, 'Mr Derwent did say Nella was unhappy and I might find her difficult to approach. But he didn't say she was either morbid or obsessed, which are rather harsh judgments quite so early, don't you think?' The lift of Leonie Crispin's shoulder was impatient. 'What's a mere choice of-words? And Clive is still trying to understand her. I've given up. You slap an hysterical patient for her own good, and if Clive did the right thing by Nella he'd take something of the same line with her. As it is, he's likely to find himself with a confirmed neurotic on his hands. Take today, for instance. You'd been told she would meet your train, hadn't you?' 'Mr Derwent said he would ask her to.' 'Exactly. And what happens? Deliberately, in order to let him down, she goes off on her own without saying where or when she would be back. And if I hadn't gone over to Kingstree, to find their housekeeper going up the wall about it, you wouldn't have been met. What do you say to that?' 'It needn't have been deliberate need it? She could have forgotten about me.' 'Maybe. Much more likely it was a studied insolence to Clive. No, I'm afraid most of her friends will soon have had Nella, and you shouldn't claim you haven't been warned either. But I suppose, poor you, you won't be in much of a position to answer back, will you?' 'Probably not,' said Mary drily, and was thankful when the cruel dissection was left there. A busy wind had dispersed the dullness in which she had set out from London and the forest trees, better dressed for spring than those further east, made patterns of lacework against a cloudless sky and

dappled the sunlight which they would shut out completely in high summer. Where the country opened out it was heathland, dotted with gorse in bloom; where the forest closed in, wide rides carpeted in springy turf wandered away into its depths. Its characteristic sights were new to Mary. She could guess at the grim purpose of the fire-brooms, guarded in rough frames set at intervals along the grass verges. But she was as unprepared as she was enchanted at her first sight of a forest pony mare and foal grazing unattended at the roadside. She sat forward eagerly. 'Oh, look!' she breathed. 'Could we stop for a moment, so that I could try to speak to them —please?' 'Stop? No!' Instead Leonie Crispin accelerated and as she passed the animals, flung up a warning hand which sent them whinnying towards the shelter of the trees. Then she turned to demand sharply: 'Don't you know those creatures are a menace on the roads? That it's expressly forbidden to encourage them by trying to feed them or by coaxing them in any way?' 'I'm sorry -' 'Well, don't forget it while you're down here, please. Sentimentalising over them because they're "so quaint" is one thing; endangering motorists' lives is another. Personally I hate the sight of them. If I had my way and it were possible, the whole lot would be rounded up and impounded and sold off. Anyway, don't you add anything to the toll of accidents they cause if you don't want to blot your copybook from the start.' Puzzled by the sharp, almost venomous reaction she had evoked, Mary said nothing. Then:

'I'm sorry,' she repeated. 'I didn't realise -And I love horses so much.' Leonie said less intensely, 'Horses? Well, that's all right. And if you want to ride, I daresay my cousin can provide you with a mount.' 'Ride? Oh, I'm afraid I can't. I've never had the chance to learn.' Mary forbore to add that, for the short time she would be at Kingstree, she couldn't justify the Expense of kit either. 'You don't ride?' From the tone of that echo Mary might have said she had carelessly omitted to learn to walk. But as if she could answer her own question to her satisfaction, Leonie added, 'Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't. Silly of me to think that in your circumstances in London, you would have had the opportunity.' Which left Mary in little doubt that she had been at the receiving end of a second faint snub as her companion slowed and turned the car towards a house quite hidden from the road by its surrounding trees. Kingstree was a square house, neither as awe-inspiring as Mary had feared, nor perhaps architecturally elegant. But somehow— welcoming, with its backcloth of beeches just pricked with green, its weathered brickwork and the mellowed tiles of its roof. Clive Derwent's home which, when they married, Leonie Crispin would share. Not liking the thought, Mary wrenched away from it, and made ready to get out of the car. But the other girl lingered, hands still on the wheel. 'I hope you're not expecting a posse of aged retainers flourishing bouquets of welcome,' she said. 'Besides a daily and a gardener, there are only Mrs Hancock, the housekeeper, and her husband William who buttles and valets Clive. We shall need more when we marry, of course. Which reminds me -' She glanced at her ringless third finger.

'Don't mention our engagement to Nella, please. Clive doesn't want to make it official yet, for an obvious reason at which I suppose you can guess?' 'I don't quite-; -' 'My dear girl, Nella has lost her own fiance, hasn't she? Personally, I don't see why she should resent Clive's being engaged because of that. But he's reluctant to ram our happiness down her throat, so to speak. So I'll be obliged if you don't refer to me as his fiancee until we do make it official.' 'Of course I won't,' promised Mary. 'Though I should have thought Miss Derwent would know that it was imminent.' 'Well, she doesn't. Of course she knows Clive and I see a great deal of each other. But Clive insists on our being— discreet in front of her. And though, when she exasperates me, I'm often tempted to tell her, I've curbed myself so far. No'—as Mary reached for her case— 'leave your things for William to bring in. I'll come in too and see if that tiresome. girl is back yet. You'd like tea, I daresay. Mrs Hancock will have it ready.' Mrs Hancock, a trim pleasant woman in her forties, said that Miss Nella had just telephoned from a nearby village to say that her motor scooter had broken down, but that she would be home shortly. 'It could happen to anybody,' the woman ventured in excuse of her young mistress. To which Leonie retorted sarcastically that it was just too bad it should happen when Nella was supposed to be meeting a train at Ringwood, instead of being anywhere else at all on a scooter. The inside appointments of the house were as reassuring as its exterior. Furniture shone; brass and copper gleamed; there were

books and flowers—the whole effect, as Mary knew well, quite deceptive of the tireless domestic effort which achieved it. Her own room looked out over a shelving lawn and was airy and bright with chintz. Showing her to it, Mrs Hancock said tea would be served when she went down. But downstairs again, after freshening up, Mary could not remember which room she was supposed to go to for tea. All the white panelled doors off the hall were closed, except one. And as she paused near it, she heard Leonie-Crispin's light, carrying voice within. She seemed to be talking on the telephone, and suddenly Mary found herself shamefacedly listening ... '... My dear, yes! Your plain jane with the alleged heart of gold has arrived ... Well, of course I know! I'm ringing from Kingstree, and I fagged over to Ringwood to fetch her myself... But caro mio, I've just told you! Nella simply ignored you and disappeared before luncheon ... How should I know where? ... Oh. yes, she's all right. She has phoned since and is on her way back. But I'm not her keeper. And you could sound the faintest bit grateful, Clive, that I bothered to collect this Smith girl for you... Uh-huh, and how! All you said of her—so worthy, so earnest, so painfully dull.. But Mary had overheard enough, too much. She retreated to the foot of the stairs and clung to the newel post feeling sick with shame. Eavesdropping was as despicable as reading other people's letters. And if you yielded to the temptation of it, how true that you deserved all you got! 'Worthy.' 'Earnest.' 'A plain jane with a heart of gold.' That hurt the most -And surely Clive Derwent might, have left her to make her own impression on his circle; might have spared hex such derisive labels in advance? For there wasn't any doubt, was there, that

Leonie's words had only been echoing his, confirming that she agreed with him, laughing with him at 'this Smith girl' ? And—'All you said of her.' What else had he seen fit to tell his fiancee about her? Surely not the story of how their one dinner date had come about? And please, Mary agonised, not about the kiss which, in- the light of his having made fun of her later, hadn't deserved any of the bewildered gratitude she had felt at the time! She did not know why it should hurt so much. She felt as betrayed as by Clare's airy desertion of her. She loved Clare, so what was the comparison? There wasn't any. Clare's importance in her life had been enduring and would die hard. Whereas Clive Derwent -No! Why should she think of him and Clare in the same terms, as if, like Clare, he had let her down? You couldn't feel cheated of something you had never had, and if he had later catalogued her looks and her dull quality for Leonie Crispin's amusement, she hadn't even had his sincerity, his kindness ... With an effort she controlled the trembling of her limbs and squared up mentally to the hurt. She was glad she had learned to whistle in the dark. Given time, she might come to see the funny side of 'plain jane with a heart of gold' and even tell it against herself. But she still felt as if a raw nerve had been exposed and probed when Leonie reappeared and- showed her into a room where tea was laid on a low table before a freshly lighted log fire. The spring dusk had fallen before they heard the busy 'phut-phut' of a motor scooter outside. Leonie lifted an eyebrow. 'So -?' she commented. And a minute or so later a slight figure in breeches and an open duffle coat stood in the doorway.

Nella Derwent bore little resemblance to her brother. Square-cut hair framed a face somewhat mediaeval in cast. Her nose was small and straight; her eyes, dark but not beady, were too watchful for a girl of her age. They went briefly to Leonie, then to Mary. It was Mary she approached. She held out a hand. 'You're Miss Smith. I was supposed to meet you.' 'You were indeed. Why didn't you?' put in Leonie. Nella did not turn. 'Yes, well—I'm sorry.' The apology was for Mary's sole benefit. 'I—had somewhere else I had to go. I meant to get back and go by car to Ringwood afterwards. But I had a breakdown on the way back; I had to walk five miles into a village called Tag's Hollow, and then it was too late.' Mary smiled. 'It's all right. You see, Miss Crispin was kind enough to meet me -' Again Leonie cut in. 'You'd go places a lot more reliably if you traded in that contraption of yours for a donkey. And where had you been before you fetched up at Tag's Hollow?' Nella turned then. Holding Leonie's glance: 'To see someone over at Sway. Any business of yours, may one ask?' she parried. 'None whatsoever. But the next time you choose to hare across the county -' 'I did what I had to do at Sway. I shan't have to go there again.' Leonie ignored the interruption.'—Next time, please realise that I mightn't be around to help you out. And you'll be even less popular with Clive than you are at this moment. I'd remind you that I went to Ringwood for you!'

'So what if you did? You've got time enough on your hands, haven't you? And you always claim to be bored when Clive isn't dancing attendance. I suppose you're hanging on now, hoping he'll soon be in?' Leonie rose and made a business of pulling on a sweater, pushing up its sleeves. 'On the contrary, I'm leaving,' she drawled. 'And, believe it or not, Clive keeps me informed of his movements. I don't have to "hope" to see him. Meanwhile, you were to ring him as soon as you came in. I don't altogether envy you the interview!' For a moment Nella hesitated, as if she intended to ignore the order. But then she stalked past Leonie without looking at her, and with a mock-resigned upward jerk of her chin and a nod to Mary, Leonie followed her out. Left alone, Mary drew a breath of dismay. For reasons she could not know, the enmity between the other two went much deeper than the question as to which of them should rightly have met her train, she realised. And if Clive Derwent counted his fiancee among those who were anxious to help his sister, he was a poor judge of the situation. Nella was studiedly offensive and truculent. But Leonie Crispin— hard. Against her will Mary was convinced it was as simple as that. Nella came back, her thin face lowering. 'All right?' Mary ventured. She shook her head. 'He wasn't—amused. But then Leonie had got at him first. Come to think of it, I suppose she got at you too.' , 'Got at me?' 'Told her own tale, I mean. About me, and about how her angelic forbearance and patience have just about run out? I daresay she

announced herself as Clive's fiancee, and then said they weren't making it official yet, so as not to hurt my feelings?' Taken off guard, Mary was at a loss. 'Then you know?' she asked. 'Only that she's lying,' said Nella calmly. 'Even for Clive,, she wouldn't consider me. So either they aren't engaged, or it's staying unofficial for his reasons, not hers. But I'm not asking him about it. It could be just her wishful thinking, and I'm not putting ideas into his head.' She paused and looked at Mary. 'I suppose you think that's pretty ostrich of me, though?' 'You mean you'd rather not know the truth?' 'How did you guess? I—hate the thought.' She hunched forward, hands clasped round her knees. 'Arid it's not that I grudge Clive marrying, or that I'd be jealous of their being happy. I may be horrid, but I'm not that petty or mean! It's simply that Leonie -Look, have you ever known what it is to feel that someone, just by being themselves and being there, can turn everything inside you upside down?' Mary hesitated. Then: 'Not pleasantly, you mean?' 'Pleasantly? Vilely! Listen. I'm convinced Clive is wasted on Leonie. And I suspect she wants his money. And of course to be Lady Derwent when he's knighted, as he's likely to be for this new process of his. But that has nothing to do with this feeling. This—this certainty that there's something evil to her—the sort of thing they used to exorcise out of people in the Middle Ages -' At the intensity of the girl's tone a shiver ran along Mary's nerves. This was more than truculence. It was an instinctive aversion which matched and perhaps outdid the older woman's. The worst of it was, she knew what Nella meant! To a lesser degree, but without real

cause, she had felt the same about Leonie Crispin, and she had to make an effort against telling Nella so, taking sides in a quarrel which had nothing to do with her. She said quietly, 'All the same, do you think you should discuss Miss Crispin with me, Miss Derwent?' 'Meaning you're in Clive's camp, I suppose?' 'I'm not in anyone's camp. But you hardly know me, and I'm only an employee of Mr Derwent's, after all.' Nella said indifferently, 'O.K. You're not talking -' She rose and strolled to the door. 'I'd better go and change. Clive will be in soon, and we have dinner around half-past seven, if that's all right by you?' Mary filled the intervening time by bathing and changing and finishing her unpacking. When she went down- Stairs again the other two were already in the dining-room, and she was very soon aware that much the same current of hostility as had eddied between Nella and Leonie Crispin was running between Nella and Clive. It was Nella who whipped it up. After asking Mary about her journey, Clive kept the conversation general until the first small silence. Then, as if in continuance of an argument which had been cut short, Nella demanded, 'I suppose you're sour because I didn't ask Leonie to dinner?' Guarded, cool, Clive said, 'I'm not sour, and I haven't criticised you for not asking her. As she had done you a favour, it might have bees common courtesy to ask her. But if you didn't want to, that's all right.' 'You are letting me down lightly in front of Miss Smith, aren't you? If we were alone you'd be tearing a strip off me about "the ordinary

obligations of a hostess!"' she sneered. And when he made no comment, she looked cheated. A minute or so later—'Anyway, you shouldn't think Leonie wanted to do me a favour by meeting Miss Smith. She only did it because she saw that it would give her a chance to put me in the wrong with you!' Like a child looking for the chink in the armour of a grown-up's patience, Nella seemed to need to worry at the subject. But glancing from her lowering face to Clive's, Mary realised she had gone too far. He said coldly, 'You'll oblige me, if you don't mind, by not imputing that kind of pettiness to Leonie. You'd promised me you'd go to Ringwood, and it was pretty friendly of Leonie to go instead.' 'Friendly? Leonie— friendly to me? Huh—that'll be the day!' scoffed Nella. 'She stood in for you, didn't she, on an obligation I'd entrusted to you?' 'So what? I couldn't help having a breakdown, could I?' 'You needn't have risked having one, when you knew you had to be at Ringwood at a certain time. But having had one, however little it may have been your fault, you needn't now belittle Leonie's efforts to help you out. Where did you go to before luncheon, by the way?' 'Over to Sway.' 'To Sway? May one ask why?' ' "One" may not. Or if "one" does, "one" may whistle for an answer. I just went, that's all,' retorted Nella rudely. And Mary, sick with a third person's embarrassment, was glad when Clive compressed his lips on whatever retort he had been about to make.

At last the uneasy meal came to an end. Clive said he would have his coffee in his study and join them for a late television programme. Nella took Mary back to the sitting- room where they had had tea. She poured coffee and answered Mary's attempts at conversation in laconic monosyllables. But at last she accused sulkily: "Now you're throwing mental half-bricks! I didn't behave—prettily at dinner, did I?' That took some answering! But before Mary could summon enough tact to agree without appearing to do so, Nella went on, 'I never do lately. Something takes me by the throat and I have to let fly. I know they'd rather I gratified them by crying or Ricky on one of their shoulders—Clive's or Leonie's or Barney Ford's or someone's. They'd rather have me drooping than angry, and I can't droop! Come to that'—an oblique glance at Mary—'just how much has Clive told you about me?' 'Only that you had lost your fiance in a tragic car accident, and he hoped you and I would make friends.' 'But before dinner you seemed to know about Ricky. I suppose you heard the details—all the rest—from Leonie?' 'The rest?' queried Mary. 'What rest?' Nella looked incredulous. 'You don't really know how Ricky died? Nor why they think they have to cram platitudes like "Bitterness doesn't help" and "Time heals everything" down my throat? No? Well, I'll tell you. Here, read that -' She took a letter from the pocket of her skirt and tossed it into Mary's lap. 'You see? Postmarked Southampton and my name and address in capitals. Ever seen an anonymous letter before?'

Though Mary never had, she had sensed that this was one. She fingered it distastefully. 'Do you really want me to read it?' 'Yes, go on. It explains itself, as you'll find.' Mary drew out the single sheet of tolerably good note- paper, penned in the same childish script as the address, 'If you want to know who might have been joyriding with Ricky Curtis that night,' she read, 'you could do a bit of detective work on a girl named Sally Benson. If she didn't run away herself, she may know who did. She lives at -' There followed a cottage name and a road in Sway. It was signed, 'A Friend.' Sway? Mary looked up. 'Sway was the place you went to this afternoon? You went to see this Sally Benson?' 'Yes. She's a lab junior at Derwent—Clive's works. She admitted knowing Ricky by sight, but she had an alibi I had to believe. That's the second false trail my "Friend" has sent me on. Same method. Same writer, I'm sure. But the same result. Either she doesn't know as much as she'd have me believe, or else she's enjoying holding out on me. But I expect her to come up with some other suggestions. Ricky seems to have—got around quite a lot.' 'You've had another anonymous letter before this one? And why do you say "She"?' 'One other. And they always are written by women, aren't they?' 'I know it's said so. But what is this joyriding and running away that this one refers to?' Mary asked.

Nella took back the letter. Then, in a tone uncannily drained of emotion she went on: 'I thought Leonie would have relished telling you. It all came out at the inquest and the police made inquiries then, though they've dropped them since. And now, not letting me talk about it—as if they can stop me thinking!—is all part of the "hushhush about Ricky" policy that Clive has set up. But I won't give in. Not until I know for certain who was with Ricky in the car and why, carefully saving her own skin, she left him to die alone!' Appalled, Mary stared at the girl. 'Someone did that? 'Some woman did. There was a witness to swear that she was with him in the car shortly before he crashed. It happened a few miles away on a forest road without a house and without any side turnings except rides. So on a winter night he would hardly have dropped her anywhere. But when they found Rieky he Was in the wrecked car, slumped over the wheel and alone.' 'How terrible! But what caused the crash?' 'The man who saw them judged Ricky was doing around seventy, and it was supposed he swerved to avoid a forest pony -Why, what's the matter?' 'Nothing. Just that I remembered there were a couple of them on the road yesterday. But Miss Crispin was very annoyed with me when I wanted -to' call them over to the car.' 'Why should she care? Animals don't mean a thing to her except when she can make use of them.' ' 'She said they caused a lot of accidents.' 'If they do, it's the motorist's fault more often than not. Even Ricky's -' Nella paused. 'Anyway, do you wonder why I won't let go until I've

found out who was there at the time and what she had to hide that was more important to her than staying to help Ricky when he was— dying?' Mary said slowly, 'I understand how you must feel. But this girl may have panicked through shock. Or if the police failed to trace anyone, there may have been no girl there.' 'There had been. One report said there was perfume still hanging round-the car when Ricky was found.' 'Even so, and you do find out, can it really help you or Mr Curtis now?' 'I'd see that it helped me. Look—I loved Ricky. We were engaged! What do you suppose it does to me to realise that there's someone— perhaps even one of my own friends— who is able to—to laugh at me for having trusted him when she knows so much better?' 'I should doubt if she's laughing,' said Mary gravely. 'And as you say you've learned since that there were other girls for him, can you still care as much, knowing that?' Nella did not answer at once. Then, bitterly: 'What does it matter how much I care? I still mean to avenge him by finding out who deserted him and why. Besides if I don't, that would be sort of—breaking faith with him, wouldn't it? Judging him unheard, without knowing the truth about what happened that night?' 'Oh, my dear!' Mary pitied the muddled thinking with all her heart. 'How can it help your memory of him, just to indulge your revenge on this unknown girl? And if you should find her, what then?' 'I don't know. Only that if she exists I mean to find her. Because nothing about—about remembering Ricky is going to get better until

I've seen the kind of girl she was. How— ' different she was from me. What she had for him that I hadn't. All that -' Mary sighed. 'You're assuming so much! He may only have been giving her a lift. And you won't, will you, act on any more anonymous letters? They're poisonous things. Have you told Mr Derwent about these two?' 'Told Clive? Good heavens, no. He'd want to run with them to the police. And to Leonie, of course. I don't really know why I've told you about them, except as a short cut to the rest of the story which you'd hear from someone sooner or later anyway.' 'I think,' said Mary quietly, 'you told me because you needed to tell someone, didn't you?' 'Maybe. But I'm handling this thing alone, and I'm not making any promises about how I do it.' 'Even if you destroy more than you mend in the process? Look, I do see you need to clear your air. But all this secrecy, all this prickly enmity you're showing! If, through it, you lose the sympathy of the people who do remain to you, what do you gain?' 'Who remains to me?' 'Your brother, for one——' 'Clive? He's only bothered that I shouldn't harass dear Leonie.' Mary shook her head. 'No. He wants to help you. He says so. But you baffle him by holding him at bay as I've seen you do even since I came. He -'

She got no further. And as Nella turned upon her it was too late to retrace the unwise step of having revealed she was even so far in Clive's confidence. Wary as a cornered animal, Nella flared, 'So you lied! They have been talking and going into a huddle with you about me! I can just hear them. Clive'—her tone mimicked his—'See what you can do with poor Nella, Miss Smith. She won't open up for me." And Leonie—"Do what you like, so long as you get her out of my hair." That's true, isn't it? You may as well admit it. Clive came back from London the other day, singing your praises about what an amateur do-gooder you were, and I suppose it looked like one fine idea to rope you in while you're here as a kind of—of keeper for me, not to mention as his—spy!' That was all. For Clive, his face inscrutable, stood in the open doorway. 'I think, Nella,' he said coldly, 'you should go to your room.' 'Really? Do you now? And suppose I refuse to be sent to- bed like a child?' she sneered. 'You're not being sent to bed—merely asked to leave.' 'Well, I'm not going. I want to watch some television.' 'Then you'll have to excuse Miss Smith, I'm afraid. I want to talk to her.' Nella hesitated, her eyes uncertain. 'I thought you were going to watch Eye On Research yourself?' 'Not now. I'll take Miss Smith to my study. Miss Smith, will you come?'

It was an order rather than a request and Mary obeyed it. But not before a flicker of her eyelids had promised and reassured a pleading in Nella's face.

CHAPTER FOUR IN his study Clive indicated a leather armchair for Mary, swivelled the desk chair outward and proffered the contents of a cedarwood box. Using his lighter on her cigarette and his own, 'That was unpardonable of Nella, and I'll see that you get an apology, of course. Keeper? Spy—pretty sharpshooting, even for her, on a couple of hours' acquaintance! I must say I hoped she might handle better with you. How did it all come about?' Knowing he must have overheard 'do-gooder' too Mary said, 'Don't insist that she apologises, please. Evidently she had suddenly decided I was being meddlesome and she flared at once. But I think she was only threshing about rather wildly, looking for offensive things to say without necessarily meaning them.' He shook his head. 'She sounded as if she meant them at the time. She's like a drowning man fighting off rescue. It's a pity you made an issue with her quite so soon. Couldn't you have tried to get acquainted with her on a less intense level at first?' 'But I wasn't allowed to choose the level,' Mary told him. 'Immediately after dinner she turned the talk at once on to the subject of her fiance's death and seemed surprised when I told her you hadn't discussed it with me.' 'I hadn't discussed it. But I had told you the circumstances, hadn't I?' 'The bare facts, yes. Not the details.' 'There were,' he ruled shortly, 'no details that weren't based on unsubstantiated evidence, with a lot of gossip and rumour thrown in. Fortunately they've died the death of such things, and when I asked

you to try to make a friend of Nella, I saw no purpose in raking them up, making an unsavoury story more sordid still.' 'But wasn't I bound to hear them from someone, if not from Nella?' 'I took that risk/Since I hadn't thought them important enough to pass on, I hoped you would be sensible enough to be able to sift fact from rather obvious fiction. The main sad fact is that, though she deliberately blinds herself to it, Nella is mourning a charming cad of whom she's well rid. The rest that came out at the inquest was more sensationalism which did nothing for his reputation either way. By which I mean that, since everyone knows now that he was having affairs with more than one other girl while he was engaged to Nella, it can't continue to matter whether one of them was with him on that particular night, can it?' Mary had to suppress the temptation to break her unspoken promise: to tell him that Nella's warped reasoning was making a monstrous prison of just that doubt. For though she had not understood the 'why' of the girl's parting glance, she' had understood the glance itself. Clive, it had begged, was not to hear of Nella's dogged purpose nor of the promptings of her dubious 'Friend'. And pitifully misguided as Mary considered that, at the moment she hadn't the right to let Nella down ... Aloud she demurred, 'But the police did make inquiries?' 'Of course. They needed a witness to the accident if one existed. But against the remote possibility that anyone could have escaped without trace or without the help of a third person, they decided Curtis hadn't a passenger at all.' 'But hadn't a man seen someone with him?'

'An elderly man with failing eyesight claimed he had. But his evidence was vague and he couldn't describe the woman. So that story went the way of a lot of other imaginative reports, including one about perfume having been detected in the car, which was pure invention on the part of some reporter or other.' Clive paused before adding, 'I hope Nella didn't repeat all this as if she still believed it?' Mary hesitated. 'I gathered it still worries her. And in her place, wouldn't you rather face the very worst certainty about someone you had loved than be torn by doubts you longed to prove?' 'Ah, but there's the rub! The police agreed there was nothing in doubt at the time, and it will never be proved now. So Nella is only destroying herself by brooding on the possibility.' 'All the same, she still believes he was left—by someone —to die alone.' 'The chances,' said Clive levelly, 'are ninety-nine to one that he died alone because he was alone and had been throughout. The skid marks told the police the speed he had been doing, and he had been drinking, though perhaps Nella didn't tell you that? But if—and only if—we grant the one chance against the ninety-nine, don't you see how it's possible for Nella to weave an entirely false legend of martyrdom for him out of the might-have-beens? Namely, that if this mystery woman hadn't deserted him, she might perhaps have saved his life?' 'But if she was there, she did desert him,' Mary pointed out. 'If she was, she had to escape injury or shock herself; she had to dust herself down, decide to leave an injured man to his fate and walk away without trace. How many women come quite as collected or callous as that, do you suppose?'

'One might, if she had enough reason for running away. And even an innocent person might panic.' 'In that case she'd have shown up later. Your other instance smacks too much of cloak-and-dagger stuff.' 'So you're quite convinced she doesn't exist?' 'As convinced as I am that anyone who abets Nella in thinking otherwise is doing her the worst possible disservice. So if she brings it up again, I'd advise you not to use even my arguments against it. Simply refuse to discuss it as a possibility.' 'If she needs to talk about it, that could be cruel.' "Not half so cruel as encouraging her to remember Curtis as the innocent victim of a fate which needn't have befallen him if ... and supposing ... and if ...!' Mary looked down at her hands. 'I shan't encourage her, but if I'm to regain the ground I've lost, I mustn't muzzle her either, by not letting her talk the thing out of her system if she can. Please won't you let me judge how best to deal with her, Mr Derwent?' At that there was a pause across which she felt their wills clashed momentarily. Then his short laugh surprised her. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'I've wished this unpaid service on you and you're not having the way you handle it called into question. But are you going to be able to convince Nella without my help that you're neither her keeper nor my spy, whatever she may have meant by that?' 'I've told you—I don't think she meant anything by either accusation,' Mary assured him quickly. She paused, then added, 'As for the other

thing you must have overheard, I don't think that originated with your sister. She was only— reporting it.' Leaning across to stub out his cigarette on the ashtray they were sharing, he looked up at her from under his brows. 'Reporting me, you mean? "Amateur do-gooder"—you didn't care for that?' (No more, she longed to fling at him, than I cared for 'worthy' or 'plain jane'!) Aloud she challenged, 'Did you suppose I should? Or do you think it's thin-skinned of me to mind?' 'I think,' he parried coolly, 'you shouldn't take Nella's rather free translation as being entirely faithful to the original. I empathically disclaim "do-gooder". But how do I know you'd like what I really said about you to Nella any better than you like "do-gooder"?' 'You don't,' she told him. 'But even if it meant the same thing, so long as it sounded kinder I couldn't really mind.' 'It sounded kinder,' he confirmed. But he swivelled his chair again, and taking the movement as a hint of dismissal, Mary stood up. 'Had I better go back and try to make my peace?' she asked. 'Not tonight.' He went to open the door for her. 'I'll sound Nella's mood and do what I can to pour oil -' He checked on the threshold and dropped a hand on Mary's shoulder. 'You've had quite a day. Tired?' he asked kindly. 'Not really.' 'A bit discouraged?'

'No.' 'Fine. I give myself full marks for going into competition against those Birmingham nephews of yours. By the way, have you let your half-sister know of your change of plans?' 'No. How could I yet?' 'You could have cabled or 'phoned. Shall I book a Transatlantic call for you?' 'Oh no! Of course I mean to write, and I can do it by airmail.' He agreed, 'Do that, by all means. But you'll still telephone, or I shall I whipped you off the Birmingham project pretty summarily and, believe it or not, I can afford a call to reassure your half-sister as to my motives!' Mary stiffened at the irony in his tone. 'It's not necessary at all, Mr Derwent!' 'That's for me to say, and I happen to be making an order of it,' he retorted with crisp finality, and left her to work out for herself that, guessing what it would mean to her to talk to Clare across the Atlantic, he had issued his fiat because he knew she wouldn't contemplate the extravagance. As she thanked him and said goodnight she wished she had been less ungracious about it at first. Because it hadn't been a mere assertion of power on his part, but another of the unpredictable kindnesses which, once before, had cut the distance between them. Before she slept she found she was thinking that it had done something—more than a little—to erase 'plain jane'...

When she went down the next morning Nella was standing at a table in the hall, reading a letter which she thrust back into its envelope as Mary approached. it was a moment of embarrassment for them both. Then Nella remembered her role as hostess and asked how Mary had slept. Adding that Clive was not down yet she led the way into the diningroom where, with an air of having nerved herself for an ordeal, she said, 'Look, Clive says you aren't making a brouhaha about my having to apologise for the way I flew at you last night. But I want to. I'd really begun to like you, and it was decent of you not to tell him about— about the letters.' Mary said, 'Forget it. I understood. You'd confided in me and then suddenly thought I wasn't to be trusted. But really I'm not here to spy on you, even though I do feel you should tell Mr Derwent about the anonymous letters yourself.' 'And have whoever-it-is scared off writing any more? No, thanks. Not while she's holding- out on something she obviously knows and won't be able to resist telling me sooner or later.' 'She probably won't stop unless she can be traced. But the police ought to hold the letters. And you can't conclude she knows anything. She is almost certainly only an evil-minded busybody who has sent you on two false trails and who would like to send you on more.' Nella said stubbornly, 'I still don't think she'd have started it if she hadn't something to tell me. Then there's this -' She opened her palm to show Mary the letter she was carrying. Mary believed she was forewarned. 'Another of them?' she breathed.

'Not this time. This is from Ricky's people. They live in the Isle of Wight. They're rather nice. Elderly and kind of innocent—not a bit like Ricky.' Nella seemed unaware that the comparison had disparaged her fiance as she went on, 'They've sent me something, thinking it might belong to me. Look -' Mary took from her the object which she unwrapped from a twist of tissue paper. It was a single clip earring of costume jewellery type, a leaf shape in diamante with the central vein picked out in minute pearls. If the latter were ' real it could have some value; if not, it might be bought at any chain-store counter, Mary calculated. Handing it back—— 'I don't quite understand. Why should it be yours?' she asked Nella. 'I've told you—it isn't. But it was found in the wreck of Ricky's car and his parents, believing it must be mine, say they knew I'd like to have it back. The police held the car for some time; then it was taken over to the Island with the rest of Ricky's things, and it seems that a garage mechanic found the earring when the car was being dismantled for repair. It was under the edge of the mat, wedged between two floorboards, and since it isn't mine, whose it it?' Mary said slowly, 'I know you're hoping it proves something. But what? It could have belonged to any woman passenger your fiance had ever carried, and she could have lost at any time.' 'It couldn't have been there long. His garage always serviced and cleaned his car and I know they'd cleaned the inside on the very day he crashed.' 'But the police hadn't found the earring, so it's not surprising a cleaner didn't do so. Probably it was only revealed because the floorboards were being taken up and it could have been there for months.' Mary shook her head. 'No, you really must not try to make it

prove the thing you want to believe. And even if it did, how can you hope it could lead you to an owner who is never likely to claim it now?' Dogged, blind to reason, Nella claimed, 'It belonged to her. I know that in my bones. But of course you're right. Merely having it can't help me to find her. I've still got to do that my way -' She paused and looked at the earring again. 'Is it a good one or just cheap, do you think?' 'I was wondering. It's quite tasteful. I'd say it depends on whether the pearls are real.' 'M'm. Woolworth or Cartier, in fact?' Nella fingered the trinket for a moment more, then re-wrapped it and thrust it at Mary. 'Here, take it,' she said urgently. 'When I got the letter and read where it had been found, I thought it might be a clue. But I can't haul it round, looking for the pair, and it only proves what I knew before. So what's the good of it? Take it and do what you like with it, I don't care!' Mary held back. 'Then give it to Mr Derwent, tell him how you came by it,' she advised. 'No!' This time Nella forced it into her hand and closed her fingers over it as Clive came into the room. Under cover of the exchange of good-mornings Mary put the tiny parcel into her bag, not knowing what she was to do with it but slightly encouraged that Nella hadn't wanted to cling to it as a 'clue'. Perhaps, with gentle handling, she might come to abandon her equally futile hopes of those pernicious letters, thought Mary. Arid thinking it, felt her spirits rise to the challenge of helping Nella to do just that.

She realised that when Clive greeted her his raised brows had put a question. It had asked, 'How goes it?' or something like that, and she hoped her own slight nod had reassured him that all seemed to be well again between herself and Nella. And though she had expected to witness a repetition of Nella's dinner-table truculence, her fears were unfounded. There was no studied baiting of' Clive; no invitation of an irritation he refused to show; no brandishing of the red rag of Leonie Crispin's name. To Mary's relief, Nella allowed the meal to pass in a ripple of general commonplaces, in a desultory domestic exchange between herself and Clive and in talk between him and Mary about the Cabord manuscript. He planned, he told Mary, that she should work on it in his study. It was awaiting her there now and she could make a start on it when ever she pleased. He had left to her the ordering of the reference books which they had agreed at the Cavenmore she would probably need and Nella would give her the name and address of the Southampton booksellers where they had an account. Mary 'pleased' as soon as breakfast was over. Even though the tension had eased somewhat, it was a relief to escape from it into work which promised at least a manageable pattern. As she closed the door of Clive's study behind her and saw the pile of Alan Cabord's manuscript on the desk, she found herself wondering how often she might be equally glad of it as a refuge from a conflict where already she seemed to have been enlisted on both sides. There was no question yet of the typing of a fair draft- of the book. Instead she settled to read it and to make notes on her ideas for its editing. Absorbed, fascinated and occasionally appalled by the poignancy of the subject, she worked on through the morning and was not disturbed except by William bringing her sherry and biscuits—'Mr Derwent's orders'. When Nella came to tell her luncheon would be ready in a quarter of an hour she felt mentally refreshed and very satisfied with as much as she had achieved so far.

Her progress was necessarily slow, but she had the afternoon before her and at the end of it she would have quite a sheaf of annotations and suggestions to refer to Clive. Nella, however, had other plans for her afternoon. 'Clive won't be home for lunch, but he suggested I should take you down to Queen's Beeches to fix up some riding for you while you're here. Do you ride or don't you, by the way?' 'I'm afraid I doti't,' Mary had to admit for the second time. Well, that's all right.' Unlike Leonie's, Nella's reaction was easy, kind. 'If you don't learn to ride in the New Forest you never will. But you needn't bother to take a course of lessons. I'll teach you myself. I school Barney Ford's young ponies, you know, and he gives me a choice of mounts.' 'But I haven't any riding kit.' 'Doesn't matter. Barney likes to insist on what he calls "the works" when he sends a class out in a string. But to begin with you can fall off a horse in anything, believe me. What have you got with you? Slacks? A shirt you can wear with a tie?' 'Yes, those.' 'They'll do. Wear them and you can have a lesson today.' Nella intercepted Mary's glance at the papers on the desk. 'And you needn't go all dutiful about that thing either. Clive said you might, but that I was to insist. Funny, that -' she paused. 'This morning we were quite civilised and normal with each other. Must be something to do with your influence. And look, I don't have to keep you at the arm's length of "Miss Smith" as Clive does, do I?' 'I hope you won't. My first name is Mary.'

Nella nodded. 'I know. Nice. In fact, one of the nicest names there are.' 'Also, tacked on to Smith, one of the commonest! I believe there are around ten million of us Smiths altogether in the world, and the Mary Smiths alone must be legion.' 'What a thought! Can't you run to the distinction of a second name?' 'Not unless I adopt one. No, I'm afraid I'm stuck with plain Mary Smith as a life sentence -' 'Or until you marry. Then you might become Mary Something quite distinguished.' 'Or something much worse! On the whole, I'd better settle for Smith and make the best of it,' Mary said, and was gratified to hear that Nella could actually laugh.

When Nella gave her the choice, Mary elected to walk through the forest to Queen's Beeches. On the way Nella described the Ford household for her benefit. 'You can't not like Barney,' she forecast. 'He's stolid and genuine and of all people who are supposed to "mean well" towards me since Ricky died, he makes the least song and dance about it. Then there's Mrs Ford, and if you really haven't a boy friend of your own you'd better watch out for her.' 'Watch out?' 'I mean she's match-making for Barney. Every girl who lights over the horizon she looks at with that end in view, and I'd say you're just the type.'

'Her type-—or her son's?' queried Mary drily. 'Hers. She genuinely believes he'll leave the choice to her, and maybe he will. He, has more of an eye for horses than for girls, bless him. So when Mamma Ford finds her ideal he may fall into line for want of any different ideas on the subject.' 'And why should you think she'll see me as a likely candidate?' asked Mary, reflecting that for cynical analysis of people in their absence Nella was almost a match for Leonie Crispin. 'Because—quote—"I want to see Barney marry a nice sensible girl with no nonsense about her." Unquote. She tells everyone that in the first hour of -Oh, heavens!' Nella checked, finger at lip. 'Don't say I've .done it again— called you a do-gooder in so many different words!' 'No, it's all right. But I think you could be kinder about Mrs Ford, you know. At least it doesn't sound as if there's any snobbery to her match-making.' 'Oh, there isn't. Give her her due, all their capital went into the riding stables for Barney, so that's why she's looking for a homespun who won't be likely to fritter away the profits. Quote again—"Handsome is as handsome does. I have no use for merely idle women." And she hasn't either. That's why Leonie is such a thorn in her flesh and why, by contrast, the wife she chooses for Barney will need to be the very pattern of industry and practically a gargoyle.' Evidently intent on retracting 'do-gooder' Nella added quickly, 'But only by contrast, I mean.' 'Of course. Miss Crispin is Mrs Ford's niece, isn't she? Has she lived at Queen's Beeches since she came back from South Africa?'

'Yes. She hasn't any parents, but she has a private income of sorts. She went out to South Africa and then drifted back again after dabbling in a partnership in a guesthouse and then being decorative around a country club. At first she was always claiming she meant to go out again. But that was before she got her hooks into Clive and now she's just putting in time until she can clinch the deal, I suppose.' Nella raised her riding crop and pointed. 'Here we are. These are the stables and the exercise paddocks. The house is behind those trees. But we'll look up Barney first.' In the stable-yard, however, there was no answer to her yodel and a lad sweeping out a loose-box told her 'the Guv'nor' had had to take all the available hacks to accommodate a riding party from a neighbouring forest hotel. 'There's only Tarquin left here, miss,' said the boy. 'Oh, the new horse?' Nella turned to Mary. 'That puts paid to your lesson and to a mount for me, I'm afraid. This Tarquin is a new addition; Barney suspects him of being funny tempered and he hasn't let me ride him yet. Come on, we'll go and find Airs Ford. She may know when Barney expects to get back.' They were to encounter Leonie first. As they approached the house she drove out from the garage and halted her car at sight of them. She raised a gracious hand to Mary and gave Nella the news they had already heard from the lad. 'Yes, we know,' said Nella, making a rudeness of her tone. 'All right, surly! Barney asked me to tell you, and could I guess you'd have been to the stables first? I suppose you know too that he said if you came over and wanted a mount you could take Tarquin out if you liked?' 'Tarquin? He didn't! I don't believe it,' retorted Nella.

'All right,' said Leonie again. 'Don't. But don't accuse me later of not having told you, that's all.' Edging the car forward, she drove away. Nella looked after her, biting her lip. 'He could have, I suppose, knowing there was no other horse for me and that I've been longing to try out Tarquin.' She turned to Mary. 'Look, would you mind terribly if I left you with Mrs Ford while I take him up into the forest for a little while?' 'Of course not. But do you think you ought to?' asked Mary. 'Yes. Barney must have left that message with Leonie. She couldn't have made it up. And you've got to run the gauntlet for Mrs Ford some time, so why not now?' An hour later, feeling somewhat bludgeoned by Mrs Ford's interest, Mary was ready to admit Nella's description of her hostess had been shrewd. In the matter of information she wanted, Mrs Ford had no inhibitions. Questions followed brisk question as to Mary's background, her work, her plans and what Mrs Ford delicately referred to as 'any attachments'. And when Mary had to disclaim 'attachments' Mrs Ford smiled. 'Well, let's hope that will be remedied before long, dear,' she said. 'I always say nice sensible girls like you are the salt of the earth and should get married, and you shouldn't get the idea that every man is looking for a pretty face -' She broke off and cocked an ear to the sharp scrunch of a footstep on gravel. 'There Barney is now, I think. I'll introduce you and leave you to make friends while I get some tea for us all. Nella should be back soon. Leonie too. She only went into Ringwood.'

Barney Ford was a square young man with a pleasant freckled face and a thick upbrush of sandy hair. When Mrs Ford introduced and explained Mary, his greeting was a grin and a numbing handshake. 'Too bad you came over when there wasn't a mount for you. Nella should have phoned and I'd have fixed something. Where is she, by the. way?' he asked. 'She took Tarquin out.' Mrs Ford answered his question. 'She did what?' 'Took Tarquin into the forest. You'd said she could hadn't you?' 'I'd said nothing of the sort! She knows perfectly well I don't trust that horse and that I've forbidden her to ride him until he's learnt a few manners -' As Leonie came into the room Barney spun round on her. 'Look here, did you see Nella? If so, what message did you give her from me?' 'The one you shouted up the stairs. That you had to take the whole string over to The Lawns, but that if she came over she could have Tarquin -' 'Can't have Tarquin!' "Can" is what I heard.' For a long moment the cousins stared each other out. Then Barney muttered, 'That's your story and you're sticking to it?' Leonie shrugged. 'It's no story. It's what I thought you said. I could have made a mistake, couldn't I?'

'You could have——' As angry colour rushed into Leonie's face Barney turned back to his mother. 'Where did Nella say she was going? How long has she been out?' 'Into the forest. About an hour. No, longer than that now. Why, Barney, you don't think anything has happened to her?' 'I'm not waiting to find out. I'm going to find her.' 'Riding, dear?' 'No, I'll take the car. I know the way she may have taken, but I'll send Dancy and Hill in the jeep in another direction.' He glanced across at Mary. 'Want to come with me?' he offered. 'Please, if I may.' From an amiable, relaxed young man Barney had become a dynamo of purpose. A very few minutes later the small search-party had been manned and briefed and the car was alternately lurching and steadying over the doubtful surface of a forest ride. At a particularly bad bump which took Mary off guard —'Sorry about this, but it's the way I think she may have gone,' said Barney. 'It's all right.' Mary rubbed her head where it had come into contact with the roof of the small car. 'You're really afraid, are you, that Nella may have been thrown or something?' He nodded. 'Could be. I'd trust her on most horses I know, but there's no reckoning with the wicked ones, and Tarquin is wicked, I'm afraid.' 'Wicked?'

'M'm. They come that way sometimes. Like some people- -It's my fault. I shouldn't have bought him. But he was the kind of build I wanted to offer to experienced riders, and when I bid for him at a sale and got him, of course I didn't know he had tricks.' 'Why, what does he do?' 'Broadly, he doesn't see himself as a beast of burden at all; in particular he knows the best way of ridding himself of a rider in this kind of country. That's why I'd rather have heard Nella. had taken him on to the Ringwood road. In here, if she lets him get the faintest idea he's got his head, he's liable to belt for the nearest low-branched trees and try to brush her out of the saddle.' Barney added laconically, 'By the way, Leonie was lying, you know.' 'Was she?' 'Yes. She fell into the trap I laid for her. I didn't say "Nella can't have Tarquin" and she couldn't possibly make "can" out of "Tell "Nella she is not—repeat not—to try to ride Tarquin", which is what I really said. I'd told the lad too, but if Nella thought she had my permission she would have overruled him.' Mary suppressed a shiver. 'But why should Miss Crispin have lied?' 'Search me. No, you needn't. She thought she could get away with it—her word against mine and she could always plead she had misunderstood—and -she did it because she hates Nella.' 'But surely not enough to -?' 'To risk getting the kid injured or even killed? You'd think not. But she does hate her, and if any harm has come to Nella through her -' There was a savage note in Barney's voice. But leaving the threat unfinished, he added, 'I suppose you've heard already about Nella and

this chap Curtis who was killed? She's heartbroken for him, you know.' There was a pause. Then, almost without her own volition, Mary asked, 'Is she?' Barney turned to look at her. 'You said Is she? as if you doubted it.' 'But I think I do. At least I'd like to believe she is angry to the core, rather than heartbroken.' 'Angry? With Curtis?' 'Not exactly. Feeling betrayed by him and wanting to hit back at him. But failing that, to hit out at anyone and everyone instead. You see, when people are deeply sad, they usually crave sympathy and are grateful for all they can get. However distraught they are at first, they don't go on being as thorny and resentful of help as Nella is.' 'You're saying, in fact, that she isn't as desolated as we think?' 'I don't say she's playing a part. And she loved the man, I'm sure of that. But I believe that in her heart she's ready to abandon her last illusions of him, to write "Finis" under the whole thing.' The heel of Barney's palm thumped the steering wheel. 'Then why doesn't she, for goodness' sake? If s all we ask of her! All we want!' Mary shook her head. 'I doubt if she can yet. She needs a new foothold to do it from.' 'What kind of foothold? Another love affair for her?' 'I'm afraid she'd be distrustful of -one, unless she were handled very gently. No, I think it would help most if she. could know for certain

that Rickman Curtis was either a better man than she thought him, or much worse.' 'Doesn't she know enough about the fellow already? What more can she learn now?' That told Mary that Barney at least wasn't a party to Nella's wild hopes. She said, 'Nothing, I daresay. But. if she could, I think it would lay some ghosts for her and she'd be free.' Barney nodded. 'I know what you mean. All those doubts about whether he was alone or not on that last drive? But you can't blame Clive Derwent for refusing to let her brood about that, against all the evidence that there must have been!' 'No, perhaps not.' Suddenly weary of fighting Nella's losing battles, Mary sighed and bit her lip, and Barney looked at her again. •Never mind. Maybe you've got something there. About her being angry, not broken-hearted,' he allowed. 'I'd prefer to believe that too. It could make a world of difference -' He broke off as Mary sat forward with a sharp exclamation. 'There! Ahead on the right!' She pointed through the windscreen. 'Would that be Nella's horse?' Barney looked. 'Tarquin—and how!' Muttering something between a prayer and a curse, he was out of the car, Mary following. The big bay was quietly cropping at the edge of a thick group of trees, and when Barney had tethered him he looked him over critically. 'He hasn't been travelling, I'd say. So, please God, Nella's not far off. We'll quarter the nearby ground between us and if we get out of touch we'll report back here in half an hour. Got a good pair of lungs on you? If so, use 'em. Shout yourself hoarse -'

They parted to take separate paths through the undergrowth, and it was Mary who found Nella not many minutes later. She was lying on her back in bracken and she had been able to answer Mary's call. Barney, not yet far off, came running, and Nella managed a rueful smile between them. 'Has Tarquin showed up? Is he all right?' she asked. 'Yes. Hang Tarquin! How did it happen?' demanded Barney. 'Ask me why. He was going like a lamb; then suddenly back went his ears and before I could hold him, he was mixing it in here.' She nodded at the treacherously low branch on which her cap still dangled. 'I ducked under that one, but the next sliced me off his back like a piece of cut cake. I just had time to remember the Rufus Stone and that William Rufus was supposed to have bought it in much the same way, and then I think I passed out for a minute or two -' She broke off and tried to sit up, but failed. 'No., I thought it was only my shoulder. Seems it's my back too.' She grimaced at Barney. 'When you said I could try Tarquin out, you must have thought I'd handle him better than this!' Barney knelt beside her. 'But I never said you could.' 'You didn't? I don't understand. Leonie said -' But there her voice trailed. She whitened with pain and Barney gently wiped beads of sweat from the corners of her nostrils and her temples. 'Easy, easy, honey. Leave Leonie to .me. She's got it coming to her,' he murmured. And then, before Mary could protest that perhaps Nella should not be moved, he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the car. His touch, as they settled her, was tender and solicitous, and without knowing how she knew it, Mary felt that the moment bad changed something for them both.

*** An hour later Nella was in bed at Queen's Beeches, her dislocated shoulder set and her spinal pain deadened with sedatives for the time being. She was not to be moved again for several days, the doctor ordered. After a precautionary X-ray of her back she might possibly go home then; equally possibly not. It depended on the damage the film might show. Mary, helping Mrs Ford to prepare the sick-room, did not know what passed between Leonie Crispin and Barney on their return with Nella. But later there had been a protesting of gears and an angry scutter of gravel from the direction of the garage. And when Mary Went downstairs Barney announced savagely, 'Well, when she comes back it's goipg to be a lot too soon for me! But I confess I'm foxed. I meant to tie the thing good and hard round her neck and see that she wore it. But she pleads a genuine mistake, and as I've no witness, that cuts the ground from under me and she knows it. Also that she can make Clive believe her where thousands wouldn't. But what the heck am I to tell Nella?' Mary did not answer at once. Then, 'If I were you, I'd let her think Miss Crispin did make a genuine mistake,' she advised. 'You mean—let Leonie get away with it?' Mary said, 'If she has any conscience at all, she won't get away with it. But as you can't prove it, it won't help Nella to make matters worse between them than they are already. They're enemies, let's face it. But placed as they are, they've got to-meet; they can't declare open war.' Barney nodded reluctantly. 'Uh-huh? Clive? But sooner or later there's going to be a showdown and he's going to have to choose between his girl friend and his sister -' He paused and pulled at his

lower lip. 'See what you mean, though. Nella has got to live with him, and unless she has got an open-and-shut case that Leonie hates her, he isn't going to wear it.' 'Something like that. From the little I've seen, Mr Derwent will take anything from Nella but spite against his— against your cousin. And without proof, he could see this accusation as spite.' Barney nodded again. 'Yes, all right. Though I won't be responsible for anything Nella may guess off her own hook.' He broke off and studied Mary. 'By the way, when I phoned Clive, do you know he thought at first it was you?' 'Me?' 'You, not Nella, I mean. Trying to break it gently, I said, "Look, there's been an accident -" But before I could get out even the "N" of "Nella" he'd rapped across with, "Who? Mary -?"' Mary shook her head. 'You must have misheard him. He'd have said "Miss Smith". Not "Mary".' 'Take it or leave it, he said "Mary". So what if he did?' 'Nothing, except that he always calls me Miss Smith.' 'To your face? Well, he must think "Mary" behind your back,' Barney insisted. And could not have guessed how badly she wanted to believe it was true.

CHAPTER FIVE DURING the fortnight before Nella was allowed home Mary made good progress with the manuscript. Almost too good progress ... For once she was able to embark on its first actual draft, she calculated she might not need the suggested 'couple of months' for its completion. And then? This time, not another job put behind her. Instead a whole little world which she was sharing now, but which would probably soon forget her, once she had turned her back on it. And no one in that world—Clive Derwent's world—would know or care that she took heartache away with her. For on the night of Nella's accident she had realised why it had been good to hope that he had really called her Mary over the phone. In itself it meant nothing. He called his office secretary 'Miss Truscott' or 'Emily' or 'Emily T.' quite impartially. So if he had abandoned the formality of 'Miss Smith' on his side it didn't increase their intimacy by an inch. No, it mattered only because she wanted to believe he thought 'Mary' about her, and because her little spark of pleasure at Barney's reporting, lighting the rest of her day, had shown her only too vividly what she had made of a cause or two for gratitude and of a single kiss which hadn't conveyed even a cool affection, but only a reassurance of which she had been in need. It was wonderful ... No, it was frightening, it was dangerous. But it had happened. She was in love with the man, and what was more, she did not know when it had all begun for her. Her shock at finding he was engaged should have warned her; she should have known, when Nella had asked her if she knew how a world could be upset by just one person, that her thoughts had flown instantly to him. Had she wilfully blinded herself? she wondered. Or

^as it that she had no experience, no earlier affair to measure the real thing by? She was only sure that this was the real thing; the lasting thing, the deep involvement which gave a woman irrevocably into a man's hands, whether she would or no. And now—what? she had demanded of the darkness that night. How much poise did it take to keep such a secret? How much detachment to face a hopeless situation squarely and to live it down in time? Her first panic advised, 'Cut your losses and get out. There's something bittersweet about loving unasked, but living with jealousy is sheer hell.' But against the stark wisdom of that she had to set the claims of two unwritten loyalties—one to Nella and the other to work which had caught at her imagination and which Clive had trusted her to complete. And something else again—the ache at the heart that was like a hunger—knew that to run away was to deny experience for fear of being hurt, And that, she suspected, was one of the worst cowardices of all. On her resolve to stay she had sat up and thumped her pillow defiantly. Whose folly was it, anyway? And how did she harm Leonie Crispin by it? Certainly she couldn't pretend Clive had encouraged her in it! Except, perhaps, by calling her 'Mary' to a third person ... And even then probably not remembering that he had. On the small cynicism of that she had slept at last. But it had taken pride as well as cynicism to face him next morning as if her world had not tilted overnight because of him. But though it was a shock to find him calmly waiting for her to join him at breakfast, it had been a salutory shock. No saving disenchantment. No hope of that! But a steadying, a calming of the turmoil he had created for her. The next morning was easier. The next one, easier still.

He had not forgotten his promise to book a Transatlantic call for her, and though she had written to Clare in the meanwhile, she went to the telephone filled with eager excitement. But she found that she had not reckoned with the tongue- tying effect of the mechanics of talking across several thousand miles, nor with Clare's complete lack of interest in her own small news. When she had explained the how and the why of her call and had assured Clare she thought she had known what she was doing when she chose the New Forest instead of Birmingham. Clare then took over. Everything in Clare's new garden was lovely, it seemed Peter must let her stay on and establish a branch of Decor. Or if he wouldn't, she was getting out and starting on her own, as soon as she could establish residence, and of course her mother's being now an American citizen would help with that... The operator's signal that their time was up came almost as a relief. At least, thought Mary, as she replaced the handset, the call had established certainty. Peter Bryce had been right and her own hopes had been wishful. Clare would not be coming back.

A few mornings later she had to tell Clive at breakfast that, of the books she had ordered, the booksellers had failed to send the only one she needed for immediate reference. 'The invoice was marked "Reprinting. To be forwarded when available." What shall I do about it?' she asked. 'You must have it at once?' 'I really need it. Could I cancel that copy and get one elsewhere?'

'If it's reprinting it might mean a long search to find it in stock in another shop. I'll try London, but for the moment could you manage with notes from a copy in a reference library? You could? Then I'll take you in to the Civic Library in Southampton this morning.' He looked at his watch and gathered his own letters. 'Be ready in a quarter of an hour, will you? I want to call in at my office on the way. Then, after you've had as long as you need in the library, we'll lunch in the city before coming back.' Equipped with notebook and ballpoint, she was ready to join him when he brought the car to the door. As he flicked over the steeringwheel for the turn on to the road, 'Well, how do you like Kingstree?' he asked. 'The house? I think it's delightful. Have you always lived here, Mr Derwent?' He nodded. 'I was born here. So was Nella. But it hasn't been our family house in the "generation on generation" sense. If it's to become one, that's still in its future. Would you say it has the makings? For instance, how does it measure up to your vision of an ideal house?' 'I don't know that I've ever formed an ideal, except that it would be in the country and must have a garden. And ^ about that'—Mary's short laugh was shy—'do you know, I always look at any garden to see how good it would be for hide-and-seek?' 'Good heavens! Why that particular yardstick?' 'I suppose because I used to adore the game so. It scared me and fascinated me at the same time; it could always send wiggles of excitement down my backbone. But the only London gardens I ever visited were too small for it and the parks were too big. So ever since

a garden passes muster with me if it's what I should have considered then as being just right. That is, enough trees and dark corners for cover, enough open ground to be deliciously dangerous and more than one way back to Base.' Clive laughed. 'Landscape gardeners, please note! Tell me, does Kingstree's garden qualify?' 'Oh yes. Ideally.' 'I'm gratified. But since you left games of hide-and-seek behind, how do you satisfy your craving for "delicious danger" now?' 'I'm not looking for it now.' 'Folding your hands and waiting to see what your fate will send you? So you claimed once before, I remember.' 'Well, it was true, and at the time you said you were glad I'd seen the wisdom of folding my hands.' 'Only because I didn't want you to get hurt, as I thought you might if you fell into less sober hands than mine. But at your age you've no business to be folding anything in mere meek acceptance. If you must be as passive as all that, I'd recommend instead, "Open your mouth and shut your eyes, and see who'll take you by surprise"!' Deciding to play it as lightly as he, 'And if nobody does, how long do I keep my eyes shut, waiting?' she parried. 'How long did the Sleeping Beauty wait for the prince to kiss her awake?' 'She was condemned to sleep for a hundred years.'

'Well then, what's your hurry?' As he made the riposte his crinkling smile invited hers with an air of knowing he could claim the small triumph of having had the last word.

Some miles away from Kingstree the country opened out, became more urban, and as the car topped a rise a huge acreage ahead could be seen to be filled to its boundaries by a kind of metallic sea, its 'waves' a-glint in the sunlight. Nearer the sea resolved itself into rank upon rank of mechanical monsters—tractors, combine harvesters, humbler ploughs and harrows—all bravely uniformed in blue and gold and all branded with the scrawled 'Derwent' which Mary recognised as a facsimile of Clive's signature. Beyond were the manufacturing buildings and, in separate grounds, a block of supermodern offices. Mary said, 'Somehow a factory on the very edge of the New Forest is unexpected. Did yours really begin here?' 'From scratch. I began with two Nissen huts and two mechanics. Half a Nissen was my office; the other one and a half our engineering shop. One of the mechanics is now my works manager; I've made the other a director. And it's not so out of place as you'd think. They'd been making ploughs hereabouts for centuries, and it's only "time marching on" that demands power now, instead of a well-balanced pair of wooden handles. Besides, the situation couldn't be better for shipments to Southampton for export.' 'I like your colour scheme.' 'That's a harking back to tradition too. I remembered that the ploughs for sale in Romsey and Ringwood markets were always brightly coloured affairs. So when I designed my stuff I dolled it up regardless. The signature is a personal conceit. You know how, when

you're young, you can't credit that you won't blazon your name across the world somehow?' 'I don't think I ever really believed I should.' 'Perhaps girls don't, knowing they'll change them. But boys do, so when these things began to go places, sending the "Derwent" along too was my way of doing it.' 'How far do you export them?' He lifted a shoulder. "Most everywhere now. The Commonwealth, all over Europe, the Middle East -' 'Don't you feel proud to think of them on, say, the prairies of Canada or the wheatlands of Australia?' Tm more gratified to know they're getting increasingly to -grips with land that's never been opened up before. Canada and Australia were already among the converted, but my heart rejoices at orders from, for instance, Israel or Pakistan.' 'Your heart really rejoices?' 'Why not?' He threw her a glance as he halted the car at the imposing entrance of the office block. 'I may have achieved a small empire in robots, but I haven't grown robot emotions to match yet. So, believe it or not, I can care more about my ugly, backward ducklings than I do for my glossier swans!' Suggesting that she wait in the car for him as he would not be long, he left her and went into the building. Mary sat, listening to the voices, backed by the steady chatter of typewriters which came to her from the open windows on three floors. Further off the thud and hum of the heavy machinery in the engineering shops made a deep obbligato to the chaffing shouts of

men moving through the ranks of the shining giants awaiting despatch. From two hutments and two other pairs of hands besides Clive's own—to this! Mary marvelled. What ambition, what faith that the thing could be done must have driven him on! She hoped that a sense of dedication had spurred him. But somehow, from his last words, she believed it had. Arrived in the city, he saw her installed in the reference room of the library after showing her the hotel where he would order luncheon. He had a drink awaiting her when she joined him there in the lounge a couple of hours later. 'Did you get what you wanted?' he asked. 'Yes, I had a very satisfactory morning. But there are one or two things I'd like your advice about.' He hitched his chair nearer to hers and as they bent over her notebook in talk neither of them noticed Leonie Crispin approaching down the long room until she stopped behind Clive and ran her forefinger across his shoulders. 'Why, Leonie!' He looked up, smiled and rose, 'You didn't say you were coming into the city this morning?' 'You didn't tell me you were!' Her eyebrows lifted in Mary's direction. 'It was a snap decision. Miss Smith was short of a reference book she needed, so I brought her in to the Library. You're alone and free? You'll lunch?' She made a show of reluctance. 'I mustn't interrupt a working session. Are you sure I shan't be a corrupting influence?' she inquired archly.

'Nonsense. You'll join us.' Clive signalled to his waiter, changed his table reservation to include her and ordered a drink for her without consulting her choice. She sighed luxuriously as she took the chair he drew out for her. 'I must say it's your very nicest form of arrogance— assuming you know exactly the drink I'm dying for,' she told him. 'Considering you'd choose a dry Martini for yourself nine times out of ten, it didn't exactly call for clairvoyance,' he said coolly. 'Ah, but even on the tenth occasion I could back you to get it right. And that is genius!' As she bent over the lighter he offered her, her provocative upward glance seemed to close a door, not only upon Mary but upon the whole crowded room. This is my territory. Keep out! it said—a veto which was to last throughout a meal at which Mary was uncomfortably aware she was being broadmindedly forgiven for accepting luncheon with Clive without Leonie's knowledge or permission. Over the coffee the other two were talking about a coming dance at a shore naval station called H.M.S. 'Triton. 'I suppose Nella won't be going?' asked Leonie. 'Heavens, no. She isn't due home until the following day. And even if she were convalescent, I doubt if she'd want to go.' 'Well, you know how I'm placed? Such a bore -' 'Yes. A pity. Meanwhile there's the question of a than for Miss Smith.' 'For Miss Smith?' The blankness in Leonie's tone was a subtle slight in itself. But at Mary's hesitant, 'Oh, I don't -' she recouped it quickly. 'If that's all you want, I've no doubt who'll oblige,'she drawled.

'You do? Who?' 'My dear cousin Barney.' She turned to Mary. 'May I tell Clive? Because it's quite funny, isn't it?' Mary flushed. 'There's nothing to tell' 'But there is!' Gaily to Clive: 'You see, Aunt Ford is on the warpath as usual, in search of a "really homely" girl for Barney. Evidently she has hand-picked Miss Smith as her latest hope, because whenever she comes over to visit Nella, Aunt Ford scarcely stops to draw breath between selling her the idea of Barney and him the idea of her. You know what she can be like, and I declare her technique improves with every new victim!' 'Though without any marked success, considering that Barney must be pushing thirty and he isn't married yet,' Clive commented. 'Yes, well—I admit that up to now the girls do seem to have got away or they've blossomed out in too much glamour for Aunt Ford's taste. Or maybe at the last moment Barney has refused to have his arm twisted too far.' 'And do you suggest I should do some arm twisting to induce him to take Miss Smith to the dance?' 'You wouldn't need to. If he has ever rebelled, he hasn't done it until matrimony actually looms, and as I imagine he's still biddable where Miss Smith is concerned, you've only to utter that she hasn't got a partner and Aunt Ford will see that he shows up at the trot!' 'Big of him, I'm sure. And when I'm reduced to press- gang methods to get dance partners for my guests, I'll let them both know. Meanwhile, I'll lay on other arrangements for Miss Smith.'

At the acerbity in Clive's tone Leonie looked at him sharply. But before she said anything he changed the subject and did not return to it while she was still with them. On the return journey with Mary, however, he broke a silence by saying, 'I hope you will come to this dance in Triton, by the way. If you've never seen one, these shore stations, crewed and officered and equipped exactly like ships, are rather interesting, as long as you remember that stairs are companion ways and a wall is a bulkhead— things like that. Also I hope you didn't object to having your personal affairs discussed?' He paused. Then: 'Have you really been embarrassed by these match-making efforts of Mrs Ford's?' Mary hesitated. 'Miss Crispin exaggerated.' 'Is that diplomacy? Or have they been obvious?' 'I don't think so. Mrs Ford makes me very welcome at Queen's Beeches, and though an onlooker might think she sometimes tries to throw me into Barney's company, she hasn't put me in the false position Miss Crispin suggested.' 'Then perhaps you think I jumped the gun when I rejected him as a partner for you?' 'No, I was glad you did.' 'Then you do believe Mrs Ford may have what the Victorians would call "intentions" towards you?' 'Please don't put it like that. It sounds so cold-blooded, so— calculating.' 'But I gather that's what it is. Leonie doesn't miss much in the way of trends and atmospheres, and her aunt, let's face it, seems determined to choose and groom her daughter-in-law elect.'

'Well, so far as I'm concerned, I'd prefer to think she only wants to be kind. And when I said I was glad just now, all I meant was that I certainly don't want to be under an obligation to Barney Ford.' 'Under an obligation? My dear girl, in the circumstances, if he so much as offered to partner you, it'd be an impertinence. But he won't get the chance. When I go over to Queen's Beeches to see Nella, I shall make a point of mentioning that I shall be taking you to the dance myself.' Mary's hands knotted in her lap. 'Please don't do that, Mr Derwent.' 'Why on earth not? You need rescuing from Mrs Ford's machinations, don't you?' 'No. That is -Well, you must see that I couldn't let you.' Momentarily his glance flicked her way. 'Not another "obligation" bogey, please!' 'Yes, in a way.' She had hoped he wouldn't make her say in so many words that she knew Leonie had the superior claim. But as it seemed he was going to, she added, 'What I mean is that Miss Crispin wouldn't understand, don't you see?' 'Huh—is that all? Anyway, I thought you'd have grasped from our talk at lunch that she is already bespoken. By a remote cousin of hers, a Commander who staked his claim to partner her at this dance at the last one they gave in Triton. She had to take pity on him, he shot such a plaintive "blood is thicker than water" line. So though, other things being equal, I'd have partnered her, there's nothing so very odd, is there, about my inviting you? And if you were planning on telling me next that you're "not very good at parties", as you've done once before, I'd forget it if I were you.'

Mary said, 'But it happens to be true. I'm not, you know.' There was a pause. Then he said dispassionately, 'And do you know that there are times, Miss Smith, when I could gladly shake certain fixed ideas of yours till their teeth rattled? Come along now, are you going to the Triton dance with me, or am I to shanghai for you some young - man to whom your sensibility won't have to feel "obliged"?' Stung by the heavy sarcasm, but happy all the same, she said, 'No. I'd like—very—much to go with you.' He drew a breath expressing mock relief. 'Well, thank goodness for that, Jane Eyre,' he said. Mary started. 'Why did you call me Jane Eyre?' Watching his profile, she saw his eye gleam. 'Because you took umbrage when I called you Cinderella, and I've always thought Jane E. made even heavier weather of her exercises in self-effacement. In fact, mixing our metaphors as well as our romances—Roll on, that hundred years!' He was making fun of her again, but oddly it did not hurt. She was going to spend another evening with him. She would dance with him... laugh with him ... come home to dreaming ... It would be very sweet while it lasted.

On most afternoons she walked over to Queen's Beeches to see Nella and always looked forward to going. For some reason she kept to herself, Nella did not appear to want to discuss anything more than the everyday news Mary brought her from Kingstree and -the happenings of the Queen's Beeches household which she heard from Barney and Mrs Ford. Mary never

met Leonie in Nella's room and Nella avoided mentioning her unless she couldn't help it. But Mary heard from Barney that he thought he had convinced her Leonie had really mistaken his message about Tarquin, and from Nella's silence on the subject Mary believed he must have done. Meanwhile she liked the girl more every day and her experience with Clare told her why. She had loved Clare for all the things she was and she herself was not. And exploring Nella's differences of character and attitude offered the same stuff of friendship. Given a longer time than they were likely to have to get to know each other, Nella could even take Clare's place ... ' It was on the day before the dance that, on the short cut across the Forest to Queen's Beeches, Leonie caught her up. Leonie was riding the black mare which she grudged to any of Barney's clients, but which Mary suspected he hired out as often as possible in order to be able to. tell Leonie it wasn't available for her. But this afternoon she had it, riding with the effortless ease and grace with which she did everything. Her very height in the saddle as she reined -to a walk at Mary's side lent her an artificial superiority. 'I must say,' she commented, 'Clive doesn't seem to keep you nosedown to this job of yours. Time to fix up riding lessons, even if you haven't got around to them yet; time to drop in on Nella every day, luncheon with him in Southampton—I wonder you ever manage to open your typewriter at all!' From friend to friend it would have been the most harmless teasing and Mary would have replied in the same coin. It was Leonie's tone which made it sound offensive.

Coolly, 'I do, believe it or not,' she said. 'And as long as I get the work done, I can choose when I do it. Besides, my going in to the Library the other day was a "must", as Mr Derwent told you.' 'All right, all right—no need to stand on your dignity! I never pretended I minded or that I didn't believe him, did I?' 'You couldn't possibly have minded.' 'I couldn't really, could I? I mean, there's practically no future in competing right out of one's class, is there?' Mary felt that if she had any hackles they would be rising. 'I'm not sure what you mean,' she invited. 'Why surely? Stick to your last, in other words. Clive obviously thinks you're a wow of a typist, so you'd be a prize moron to blot that copybook by imagining you could vamp him. Anyway, don't lose any sleep, will you, thinking I've been drumming my heels with jealousy over that little tete-a-tete? I was merely commenting on the amount of time you appear to have on your hands, and if I wanted to harbour any nasty suspicions, I could do it over this cosy time you've had together at Kingstree, minus Nella. But I'm not bothered. You see, I happen to believe that a woman can always tell, the minute she has to begin to compete for a man. It's not unlike the kind of flash that tells her whether a man is going to be interested or not, and I daresay you've experienced that.' 'I don't know that I lave, or that I'd rely on it if I did,' said Mary, wilfully perverse. Leonie registered mock despair. 'My dear, you do rather plug this house-mouse gimmick of yours, don't you? However, as I was saying, I'd defy Clive to keep it from me that his attention had gone A.W.O.L., whether it was only to a cute little number across a dance

floor or for keeps to someone who meant to get him if she could. Not that he's given me any anxiety to date -Which reminds me, I hope he has managed to rope in a partner for you for the dance?' 'Not a stranger. As he says you already have a partner, he has offered to take me himself.' 'Clive has?' At once, as if she feared the surprise in her- tone could be read as chagrin, Leonie laughed. Regarding Mary from under her lowered lids, she added, 'Well, well— you're certainly going to have a chance to lay on all the glamour tricks you've got. Because I warn you, his standards, where chic is concerned, happen to be rather high!' Mary looked up her glance appraising her companion's slim figure and immaculate turn-out. 'So I've gathered,' she said very quietly. Leonie smiled. 'My dear, how nice of you! I'm afraid I'm a dreadful pushover for that kind of neat compliment. I know they say women dress only for men. But it's not true, you know. I positively purr if I can make a woman look at me twice, because I know she knows—as a man doesn't—that grooming and clothes sense and even looks don't just happen. One has to work at them like a slave, and if the results make one's own sex either pay one compliments or gibber with envy, that's success. But about you —you must do Clive credit tomorrow night. What are you thinking of wearing, for instance?' 'I hadn't decided. As you know, Mr Derwent has been in London for the last two or three days, and I haven't had a chance to ask him the kind of party it is.' 'Well, I can tell you. What kind of evening kit have you brought?'

'Two dresses. One is "very very"—full length in a sort of deep turquoise chiffon. The other is simpler, a flower- printed cotton, though it doesn't look it. That one is pinafore style -' Leonie wrinkled her nose. 'Not, I beg, semi-evening?' 'No. Just less formal than the chiffon. I haven't worn either of them yet. They were both presents from my half- sister before she went to America.' 'Well, the turquoise thing is obviously the one for the Triton affair. They give these dances every six months or so; most of the County go, and you can't possibly cavort in a pinafore cotton dress—Clive would die of shame for you!' Leonie paused. 'What do you usually do about your hair for evening?' A memory of Clare stabbed. 'Sometimes I turn it in over a ribbon. Or with the chiffon there's a bandeau of brilliants rather like a tiara, and I should use that.' Leonie pursed her lips. 'M'm. Sounds all right. And rather more make-up, I hope?' 'Not much more. Heavy make-up doesn't suit me.' 'Oh, my dear, everyone can take more for evening! You should see the way some of the women will have laid it on, and you really can not present yourself to Clive looking as if you've just put on some lipstick and left it at that. Really, if there were time, I'd take you to my man in Southampton to make sure you got a hair-do and a luxury facial.' But Mary, resolved not to be patronised, cut in there. 'As a matter of fact, I've got a hair appointment in Ring- . wood, though I'm afraid I

shall have to make my face—do. But thanks for advising me about what to wear. It was kind of you.' They had reached the Queen's Beeches stable and, at the sight of her home, the black mare turned skittish. Leonie, controlling her, could not reply for a moment or two. But when she was ready to wheel into the yard, she sketched a salute at Mary with her riding crop. 'Don't mention it, dearie! S'a pleasure, lidy!' she said in stage Cockney. And Mary did not know then why she went off smiling, as at a secret joke.

The next afternoon, before catching the bus into Ringwood for her appointment, Mary laid out on her bed the filmy blue organza, its matching slip and the blue slippers with the brilliant-studded heels which carried out the note of both bandeau and belt. It was a lovely ensemble and it had cost Clare the earth ... But somehow she was shy of it. She had been enchanted with it in the shop, yet now she wondered whether she could parry it off and even whether it wasn't 'too much' except for the most formal of occasions. She wished she had asked Nella to confirm Leonie's advice on her dress, or had found out from Clive, who wouldn't be back from London before she had to change, how formal the party was likely to be. But Leonie had been emphatic that the blue would be right and the informality of the flowered cotton would be wrong. And if she didn't know, who did? Mary argued as she went downstairs on her way out. In the hall she met Mrs Hancock, carrying a pewter bowl of pale pink tulips, among the first the gardener had sent in for the house, Mrs

Hancock said. So would Miss Smith like this bowl of them for her room? 'They're beautiful. I'd love to have them,' said Mary. 'Then if you're going out, may I take them up for you? Where would you like them put?' asked Mrs Hancock. 'On the bureau, I think. No, in the window. I shall enjoy them anywhere,' .smiled Mary as they parted. When she came back the fact that there were lights in Clive's bedroom and bathroom dispelled the childish fear that he might have been detained in London and that she might be cheated of the evening in consequence. She hummed 'Everything's going my way' as she ran her own bath and began to undress. At a knock on the door—'Come in,' she called, and Mrs Hancock entered. But as Mary smiled, 'Yes, Mrs Hancock?' the housekeeper said nothing for a moment and looked rather self-conscious. Then: 'Miss Smith, I hope you don't think I'm interfering or anything, or don't know my place. But when I brought up the tulips, seeing it laid out ready like that, I did think of asking you—please don't think me impertinent!—whether you meant to wear that lovely gown for this dance you're going to with Mr Derwent?' Surprised, Mary looked from her to the filmy spread of the dress and back again. 'Yes-— Yes, I did. Why?' she asked. 'Oh! ' That was all. But Mary felt that a meaning behind the monosyllable must be probed. 'Why, Mrs Hancock?' she repeated. And as a vague misgiving struck, 'Isn't it going to be suitable?'

'Well -Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn't! And it's lovely, miss, I'm not saying that, and with your dark hair -! But I did wonder whether, Mr Derwent being away till tonight, he hadn't told you that the dances they have at this shore station are very informal affairs. I know from what he tells William about them, you see, and whenever Miss Nella had been to them she has told me afterwards that they're not like any ordinary party. All that climbing up and down ladders on to what they call decks, though they aren't. And quite a bit of rowdiness, though of quite a nice kind—- Anyway, she says the only possible wear is low heels or ballet pumps and a short dress. I've even known her go in a summer frock—Well, you do understand?' Mary said, 'I do indeed, and I'm awfully grateful to you.' Mrs Hancock sighed with relief. 'There now! I'm glad I spoke. You see, I thought Mr Derwent couldn't have told you, or you couldn't have asked Miss Nella.' 'I didn't either. It was Miss Crispin who said I ought to wear the most formal dress I'd got.' 'Miss Crispin? But she should have known!' As Mrs Hancock's puzzled eyes met hers, Mary suspected they both had the same thought. But as she couldn't criticise Give's fiancee to his housekeeper she only said, 'I must have misunderstood Miss Crispin. She couldn't have been talking about this dance.' And whether or not Mrs Hancock believed her she nodded as if satisfied and went away. She left Mary to look at ugliness. At ugliness masquerading as friendly help between one girl and another. For only a woman—and Leonie had a more acute dress sense than most—could appreciate the social gaffe of overdressing for an occasion where everyone else had dressed for relaxation and ease. And Leonie had tempted her to it

deliberately, battening on her ignorance and banking on her trust. Leonie had wanted her to suffer the puny shame of it. Why?

CHAPTER SIX IF Mary felt a regret for the loveliness of the blue chiffon as she put it away and took out the flowered cotton and its accessories instead, she was rewarded by Clive's approving glance when she went down to him, a white shawl over her arm. He held it for her to put on and handed her the sherry he had poured for her before they were to set out. 'Nice,' he said, nodding at her dress over the rim of his own glass. 'It occurred to me, driving down this afternoon, that I should have warned you people don't dress much for these periodical do's in Triton. But then I realised you'd probably ask Leonie's or Nella's advice and that either of them would put you right if you were in doubt about what to wear. How is the manuscript coming along, by the way?' She told him and they talked about it until he took her glass from her and said it was time they left for their destination, several miles beyond Portsmouth. Mary meant to enjoy the drive. So far as she was concerned it was the curtain-raiser to the promise of another magic evening with Clive. At his invitation this time, and he needn't have asked her, need he? There, was a chill to the thought that she was merely a second-best to Leonie, as well as to the memory of the other girl's petty, inexplicable malice in the matter of her dress. But she would not, would not allow it to spoil anything for her tonight. She would have been content to sit beside Clive in silence and watch the trees strip away on either side as the car sped over the forest roads. But soon it was dusk and then dark, and then the trees had no

dimensions; only the improbable outline lent to them by the raking headlights of the car. Clive was asking about Clare, about how the telephone call had gone. After he had booked it for her he had shown no curiosity about the result. But now he asked, 'How is your half-sister liking America? When does she plan to come back?' 'She's not sure now whether she will be coming back.' 'Not? Did you know that she mightn't when she went?' 'I knew it was possible. I hoped she would, but from what she said on the telephone, I think she means to make her home with my stepmother and stay, if she can get permission.' 'I see. And how are your own plans affected? Your permanent ones, I mean?' 'Mine? Oh—I shall go to Birmingham when I leave Kingstree.' He turned to look at her. 'You're depressed by the thought of Birmingham?' 'A little, yes.' 'Then why go there?' 'Because'—she spoke slowly—'it's the best substitute 1 know for my life with Clare. I can go back to London and live alone, or I could take a room in a hostel. But neither would satisfy me. I want to be needed for the things I know I do best, and as I thought Clare did— did need me, until I realised she didn't.'

Clive shook his head. 'You could hardly expect Clare to forgo her ambitions and arrange her life, just in order to satisfy your need to fetch and carry for her and shoulder her everyday burdens!' 'Oh, I didn't! At least, I know I've no right to feel as- let down as I did at first. But that's why I'm going to Birmingham. It's, the only place where I've a chance to feel wanted again and where I hope I can belong, in something of the same way.' 'But would you belong there as a permanency, any more than you did with Clare? If it's that sort of foothold you need, why not look for it where you could hope for it to last? In marriage, for example.' 'It takes,' she reminded him gently, 'two people to make a marriage. And anyway, I couldn't marry just for—anchorage.' 'A great many people marry for less and manage to get by,' he said drily. 'But you'd turn down anything that fell short of high romance? Tell me, though, how would you define "anchorage"?' Taken aback by the abrupt question, she hesitated. 'Well —I suppose the kind of "everydayness" that I had with Clare. Security. Busyness with little things. Being fairly sure that tomorrow will be much the same as today, or if it's different, that it won't be worse.' 'And romance?' There she felt surer of her ground. She said, 1 can't speak from experience, but I should like it to mean knowing I was loved as much as I—loved. Not always feeling safe but preferring the adventure of not being, because I shouldn't be alone. Giving a lot and getting. And sharing everything, the little things and the big ones and the bad times and the dull ones. I'd hope for all that from marriage.'

As she finished speaking she glanced at him for his comment. But it did not come for a long time. When it did: 'Funny,' he said, 'how you often trot out convictions that sound as if you got them from weighing-machine mottoes, when all the while you've got a lovely sanity of your own, Miss Smith. But you know, what you call romance I'd call anchorage—the kind I imagine we're all looking for in marriage when it happens to us.' He hadn't been looking at her, but now he did. 'Anyway, let me know, will you, when you believe you've found it? I'd be interested to see—where.'

At sight H.M.S. Triton appeared to have forsworn any connection with the sea. It stood, four-square and undeniably brick built, in its own grounds, and only inside was it equally undeniably a ship to its smallest detail. She and Clive were taken first to a wardroom for drinks. Then a very young sub-lieutenant offered to show her 'over ship'. The tour took a long time, and as she pattered obediently from 'deck-level' to decklevel' and in and out of 'cabins' and 'galleys', more than once she thanked the lucky chance which had taken Mrs Hancock into her room while the blue chiffon had been laid out on her bed. Supposing she had been misguided enough to wear it! She shuddered for the chagrin she would have felt, especially if Clive, who had approved the choice she had made instead, had supposed she was wearing the other owing to her own lack of dress sense and had suggested, however tactfully, that she change it. Leonie and her partner had arrived when Mary and her escort returned to the big saloon where dancing, alternately to the ship's orchestra and to a radiogram, had begun. Leonie called 'Hello' and lifted a hand. She was wearing the simplest of dresses with some barbaric-looking jewellery, and when her glance flickered in Mary's

direction, Mary realised that Leonie hadn't really expected to see her in the formality of that blue chiffon. Leonie, in fact, had guessed it would have had to run the gauntlet of Clive's disapproval, and she would have been content with that. Again Mary asked herself— Why? Afterwards she could not have described the evening in detail, but she was very soon caught up in its infectious gaiety. For it was a dance less than it was a party, and whenever the dance music stopped there was always someone ready to suggest a child's game or a rowdy competition by way of a change. One of these—a hilarious affair of humping a minute hobby-horse along while balancing a potato on the head— Mary actually won, aided by some mild cheating on the part of her partner. It was all the greatest fun; she forgot her usually diffident shyness completely, and contributed quite a lot of cordial nonsense herself. Dancing with Clive, she recaptured the magic of her first evening with him and he saw that she did not want for other partners. In any case, in the many novelty dances the matter of a partner was one of chance and she was lucky there too. For instance, the announcement of a Slipper Waltz recalled a sharp humiliation of her first-ever dance. Then, as tonight, she had handed over a single shoe to be added to the pile from which the men, in concerted rush, each snatched one and danced with its owner. In theory she should, have had as good a chance of a partner as anyone else. But that night, when the scramble was over and on all sides slippers were being claimed and restored, her pump and one other, a palpate size eight, had been the only ones left behind. She could laugh now at the teenage shame she had suffered when she had had to limp across the floor and collect the shoe herself. She had learned to be more philosophical since ...But all the same she was childishly gratified when, this time, her friend the sub-lieutenant was

one of the first to come up from the scrum with, unmistakably, her slipper in his hand. He bore it to her unerringly and grinned when she congratulated him on not having to track her down by trial and error. As they joined the few other matched couples on the floor: 'There's method in it, honey!' he claimed. 'You memorise beforehand two or three bits of footwear you wouldn't mind treading a measure with; mark 'em well and go for 'em. With luck you'll land one, as I meant to land yours and did, though not without some snappy competition, by the way.' Mary laughed. The light flattery was pleasant, even if she did not believe he had met with any rivalry for her. 'If that's true,' she teased him, 'I'm not sure I oughtn't to haul you before the M.C. for subversive practices. Aren't you supposed to grab the first shoe you can?' 'Huh—you can say that again! Who, I ask you, is going to risk toting round for a whole dance a complete dead weight or a dead bore, when by using his loaf in advance he can get himself a real poppet? Just a trick of the trade—and you've only to look round to see it's done. There's our Number One—how do you suppose he managed to hook the Raquel Welch type he's been chasing all evening? And Sparks—no, sorry, looks like poor Sparks was unlucky ... There's Derwent, though. You came with him this time, didn't you? But he seems to be making do nicely thank you with that luscious redhead he's partnered here before.' Mary said automatically, 'Miss Crispin. They're—very old friends.' And having noticed that Leonie had not contributed a shoe and that Clive had not joined the melee, she pointed this out. 'They evidently just chose to dance this one together,' she said. Her partner conceded, 'Could be. But we wise guys do frame these things, believe me. Like another example or two?'

'It doesn't matter. I'll take your word for it.' At the end of the dance he suggested they repair again to the wardroom' where, he claimed, he suspected the M.C. of catching up on drinks between his duties. But in the crowded room they were separated. Clive beckoned to Mary to join his group and her partner lingered to chat with a brother officer. Clive, Leonie, her Commander cousin and several other people were standing near a television set showing a play of which no one seemed to be following the story, though in the intervals of their talk they gave it a casual attention. It was in its closing sequence; soon after Mary arrived there was the inevitable close-up of the hero's and heroine's final embrace; someone reached to switch off and someone else ironically hummed the opening bars of the Wedding March. 'Must hand it to actors,' commented a voice. 'How d'you suppose they put over all that passion stuff they can't possibly feel, and probably couldn't care less if they never saw the wench again? 'It's as bad for the actresses. They've got to look as if they liked it and put it over too!' said another voice—a girl's. 'Yes, well, both of them.' The first speaker's nod conceded the point. 'But how? That's what I'm asking. Must be all right if they've got even the makings of a yen for each other. But the others—how do they manage to kiss to order with any conviction in front of a camera or an audience?' If they're good enough actors they can act that as well as they can act anything else, don't you think?' suggested Mary, joining in the discussion.

'Yeah, maybe. Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it, how anyone of us would make out if we were told to go into a clinch with a total stranger and look as though we were hearing celestial choirs while we did it? I mean—the imagination boggles!' Everyone laughed, and Leonie's drawl advised, 'Better find yourself a total stranger, Ham, and try out your technique, why don't you?' Ham—Mary never learned his surname—affected to shudder. 'Who, me? In cold blood? No, thanks! Considering I can get my face slapped any day by a girl factually want to kiss, I'm certainly not going out of my way to -' But the rest was drowned in the shout of laughter which went up and when it subsided Ham was seen to be finishing his drink with a purposeful air. 'Just had an idea. Going to see a man -' he muttered, and disappeared in the crowd. With his going the brittle talk and laughter in Clive's group changed its subject and continued until someone suggested that the next dance would probably be the last or the last but one. Then there was a drift to the dance floor where their M.C. was calling for attention. 'After the next dance, folks, you can call it a day and go home, or you're free to stick around and make your own fun. I'm signing off and so far as I'm concerned, you've had it! Meanwhile, my last effort on your behalf is a new and untried form of Spot. All the lights will be turned out; you will parade—and there will be no, I repeat no, column dodgers—in total darkness until they go on again, when the man and girl nearest to a secret square on the floor will be judged to have won—or lost, take your choice—the contest in hand.' He paused there and looked about him in mock despair. 'Don't be too madly interested, will you? Don't anyone, please, ask "What contest?" as if they really wanted to know!'

Thus abjured, his audience naturally obliged in a concerted shout, and when he could make himself heard again: 'It's a screen test,' he explained. 'When the lights go up the rest of you, can grab whom you may. But our marooned couple will have to enact a typical fade-out love clinch for our benefit, in dumb show or dialogue or both, which they please, before we let them go. And if anyone'—he glared about him—'wants to suggest that, if they're too thorough about it, it's going to break up some beootiful friendships, he can jolly well say it to young Ham here, whose revolting idea it was!' But Ham, haying deemed it wise to disappear, was not brought to account. And though the consensus of opinion was that he richly deserved to be caught on the marked square himself, no one quite knew how to bring this about, short of bribing the M.C. to arrange it. So, laughing and protesting, everyone gathered on the floor and at the 'On your marks! Get set!' the big saloon was plunged into darkness. At first, to eyes unused to it, it seemed total. Then the collisions and resulting apologies became fewer and it became possible to recognise people as more than looming shapes. Leonie crossed Mary's path more than once, as did several of her earlier partners. She had not seen Clive join in, but at one point he passed close enough for their hands to brush. Then he was gone again and when, after some yarning flicks, intended to tantalise, the lights went up, she saw with relief that he was at the far end of the saloon. She herself had been caught in mid-floor. Several other girls and men stood very near, but her immediate neighbour was her friend the sublieutenant, and somehow, as the M.C. bore down upon them, she had a premonition of what he was going to say. He said it. She and the sub-lieutenant each had a foot in the marked square, and though they could, he promised, go into a brief huddle

for the purposes of rehearsal, in precisely three minutes from now they were 'privileged to co- star' in 'a stupendous and gripping climax' before 'this distinguished and highly critical audience'. At the announcement the distinguished and critical audience gave expression to a storm of hand-clapping and wolf whistles, and as the orchestra struck up 'It's Foolish, But It's Fun' Mary and her partner were given the floor. The boy grinned, 'Cross my heart, I didn't frame this one, honey! But as we seem to have bought it, what do you say? Shall we treat them to a butterfly peck and tell them that's where they get off? Or shall we give 'em the works, play it big, give it all we've got? I'm either way. You choose.' 'Well -' Mary hesitated, then took her cue from the music. 'It's silly, but it's only a game. And we did ask for it. So if you're willing to "play it big" as you call it, I am.' 'Good for you! Real crumby ham, a lot larger than life, eh? So listen, honey. Suppose you -' They went into a whispered plan of campaign and at the end of the allotted three minutes were ready to face their audience. The idea was that the boy should appear to come upon Mary unexpectedly; he should attempt to take her in his arms; she should resist and turn away. Her reluctant yielding to his entreaty would follow in agonised dumbshow, and finally they would melt into a long, straining embrace which ought, as the boy put it, to 'sizzle the footlights if there were any.' It was just such an exercise as Mary had often been set in her one and only term at the dramatic school, and though she knew her limitations she had sufficient talent to. enable her to act the scene as if she were living it.

Her partner also had talent of his own, and though they had meant to play it, tongue in cheek, as the broadest of melodrama, their combined sincerity defeated that. As he turned her towards him for the second sequence, in the mimed argument and the final searching kiss they shared, they were, momentarily, a real boy and girl refinding each other. And when they broke apart, fingers still linked, there were no derisive wolf-whistles but only appreciative applause. They were surrounded and praised extravagantly; told they had missed their vocation—they should be on T.V., on the screen, on the stage! Like the idea for the test itself, it was all very silly, but to Mary's diffident shyness the little success and the brief popularity were sweet. The dance she and her partner had earned was a foxtrot, prolonged by insistent handclapping, changed to a beat number, changed again to a quickstep and then to a waltz. There was no change of partners and though several people had tried to cut in on Mary and the boy no one had succeeded until, at the beginning of the waltz, Clive tapped him on the shoulder and firmly purloined her. 'My partner. My turn, d'you mind?' he said. And to Mary as he steered her away, 'Sorry about the interruption. I didn't suppose you were in need of rescue either. But they're beginning to force the gaiety a bit now, and as a lot of people have left I thought we'd soon go too.' 'Of course. Whenever you say,' she agreed, and checked, prepared for him to release her. But—'We'll have the rest of this one together,' he said, and kept his arm about her and her hand in his. She sketched a gesture of thanks and leave- taking to her dispossessed partner and then she was all Clive's for the last dance she would have with him. Probably the last ever ... At the end of it he said, 'Well, shall we call 'it a day?' and she nodded. But on their way to the door she stopped and looked back.

Clive stopped too. 'Yes, what?' he asked. 'Nothing. I just thought I'd like to say goodnight to Lieutenant Moreton. You know, the one who -' 'Yes.' Clive scanned the room. 'I don't see him, though. He's probably along in the wardroom. Do you really want to rout him out?' 'No, it doesn't matter.' It didn't either, in face of the hint in Clive's tone that he would be slightly bored with her whim if she insisted. So she bade a mental 'Hail and Farewell' to her friendly sub-lieutenant and went to fetch -her wrap while Clive waited for her. The small hours were cold, but the car was heated, and after a time she ceased fighting her drowsiness and slept. She roused once or twice; knew when Clive tucked the fur rug more closely round her knees. But she did not wake fully until the car stopped and the journey—which she had wasted in sleep!—was over. Clive got out with her, leaving the car at the door. His grip hard and functional on her elbow, he went with her as far as the foot of the stairs. 'William will have left drinks for us in the study. Will you have one?' he asked. 'No, thanks very much. I'll go straight to bed, if you don't mind.' She did not know how or why, but somehow the evening had fallen to pieces about her. 'Just as you please. I feel in need of one myself.' He had released her elbow, but his hand on the newel post of the stairs still barred her path. He looked tired, jaded, and after his snubbing her to silence earlier, she could not guess why he should want to keep her now. Until he-said: 'Tell me, how much of that tableau with young Moreton was acting and how much was the real thing?'

She stared at him, frowning. 'It was all acting, of course! What do you think?' 'That to my possibly jaundiced eye it didn't look anything of the sort. You enjoyed it too much, and you see, I haven't forgotten that you once disclaimed -' 'I know.' She said it for him. 'I told you I was no actress and knew it. But this was nothing—just a set exercise. Anyone could have -' She broke off, aghast. 'You mean you thought I wasn't acting? That I wanted a man, wanted to be kissed so much that I was—taking any chance that offered?' Rigid with humiliation, she saw from his expression that it was what he did think. But he said nothing. Instead, without warning, he pulled her roughly to him and brought his mouth down on hers in a long, hard kiss which asked no response from her but only stated the insult she felt he intended. Releasing her: 'Well, that's for added measure,' he said. 'After all, if you're so starved for kisses that you don't care who sees you enjoying them, you should have a comparison or two by which to judge the sample, don't you think?' For a moment his outline blurred before her eyes and she believed she might faint. What could she say in her defence? Nothing offered but the triteness of 'How dare you?' and she closed her lips on that, despising it. Things she might have said, have done, would flood in later. They always did. But for the moment she felt the only dignity remaining to her was to leave him, if he would let her go. He did, in silence until she was at the turn near the top of the wide staircase. Then he said—or she thought he did —a single word which arrested her. But she must have taken too long to query it, to pause

and to look back. For when she did he had wheeled and gone into his study, closing the door behind him. She went on up the stairs. If he had really called 'Mary -?' after her, it was too late to find out now.

The little that remained of the night passed too quickly, but, dry-eyed for lack of sleep, she was up at the usual time. In the sanity of daylight it was hard to credit that last night's scene had happened. But it had, and the impasse it had created had to be faced. Clive had to be faced ... Over and over she had rehearsed what they might say to each other. But in the event she supposed she would take her cue from him. For the coming of morning had resolved her on one point—she would not refer to it unless he did. And she was not to know, as she went downstairs, that a misjudgment she hadn't deserved was about to be dwarfed by one she had invited with her eyes open to the risk. She had written once to Peter Bryce, telling him how she had settled in at Kingstree, and his reply was awaiting her on the hall table where William arranged the sorted mail. Peter's letter lay between Clive's pile and a mimeographed letter and a postcard for Nella, and she had just picked k up when something familiar about the postcard caught her eye. It bore the Southampton postmark and the crude alphabet lettering of the address was unmistakable. It was another evil effort of Nella's anonymous 'Friend', and Mary's first coherent thought was that, if she were to keep her reluctant promise to the girl, Clive must not see it before Nella did. But if it stayed where it was, he would! Though Nella was due home today, Mary could not risk that he would not pick up her mail with his own, as he had done since she had been away. And he was

coming now! He was only a f«w yards behind her when, without weighing the rights or the wrongs or the consequences of what she did, Mary slipped both Peter's letter and the postcard into her bag. She thought Nella's other letter was probably a dress catalogue and she saw that Clive had it when he followed her into the dining room. They greeted each other add he waited until William had served them and gone out before he said: 'I realise I owe you an apology, Miss Smith. Will you take it as read, or do you want to hold me to the letter of saying I'm sorry for what I did last night?' Miss Smith ... A small hope died. She had misheard him after all. But that he might apologise had been among the effects she had rehearsed and she had her reply ready. Playing it lightly, though her lips were trembling, she said, 'I'll take it as read, Mr Derwent. I daresay it was a small price to pay for the compliment you had paid my acting. But as being kissed twice in one evening for none of the right reasons isn't exactly—rewarding to any girl's vanity, do you mind if we drop the subject now, as I'm a little bored with it? Understandably, don't you think?' For what seemed like an age he stared at her, biting his lip. Then he laughed. 'My word, I'll say you've got what it takes!' he said cryptically. And could not guess of course that, so far as she was concerned, the implied tribute to her courage could hardly have had an emptier ring. By tacit consent they did drop the subject there and talked about general things throughout the meal. At the end of it they rose from the table together and William, for whom Clive had rung, came in.

Clive handed the dress catalogue to him. 'Have that put in Miss Nella's room, will you? It can wait until I bring her home.' Mary's heart missed a beat. It was a development she hadn't expected, and she could only hope William, who was allowed to overstep formality on occasion, would not mention that there had been two letters for Nella, not one. But he did. Fingering the one he held: 'Just the one, sir?' 'That's all there was for her this morning.' "No, sir.' 'Surely?' As Clive frowned at the flat contradiction William said quietly, 'There was another, sir. It was with this one and Miss Smith's mail was beside it. It wasn't a letter, though. It was a plain postcard and -' 'A postcard?' Clive cut in. 'No postcard here.' He flipped through his own letters as evidence. 'It's probably still on the hall table or maybe on the floor. I haven't got it and Miss Smith hasn't. You'd better go and look.' The next few minutes were an agony for Mary. At Clive's last words she had had her chance and hadn't taken it. Nothing easier than to have 'discovered' the postcard in her bag and to explain that she had picked it up with her own letter by mistake! But supposing she had? She was sure the crude printing would convey its sinister message to Clive, just as the original letter had done to her. Moreover, she suspected even William knew the postcard was not the - innocent thing it should be. He had looked a question at her as he left the roam, and she sensed he was wondering if she had it. He came back. 'It's nowhere there, sir.'

'Sure you're not dreaming, man? It did come?' 'I know it came, sir. I'd only just done the sorting when Miss Smith came down and took hers. Two items for Miss Nella, one for her -' Now they were both looking at her, and feeling there was no escape, Mafy's- hand went to her bag. But again the moment was postponed when William, obviously troubled, said, 'You see, sir, I noticed it specially, because it was another of those—nasty things, by the look of it.' • 'Nasty things? A nasty postcard? What do you mean?' snapped Clive. William shifted his feet. 'I meant—like some letters that have come for Miss Nella. With her name and all that in capitals. Funny-looking. Mrs Hancock and I thought they were—well, anonymous.' Clive's jaw set. 'I'll thank you and Mrs Hancock not to try to assess Miss Nella's mail by penny dreadful standards, if you don't mind!' And as William's chin jerked up in silent protest he added, 'You'd better go, I think, and I'll see you later. You've convinced me the thing did arrive, and that's all that need concern you for the moment. It'll be found.' When the door closed there was a silence like an abyss. Then Clive mused, 'What do you make of that? Anonymous letters for Nella, and the Hancocks have known about them! 'And this vanishing postcard, anonymous or not -' He turned to Mary. 'I suppose there isn't a faint chance you did take it up in error?' Mary swallowed hard. It was too late now to pretend she had acted in genuine error, and perhaps it always had been, the postcard being so blatantly what it was. Opening her bag and extracting the card, she

said, 'I did take it, I'm afraid. William was right—it is written anonymously and that was why I took it. Not by mistake.' Clive stared at her, then made an imperative gesture towards the card. He looked it over. 'You'll have read this, I take it?' 'No.' 'But you helped yourself to it, meaning to?' 'I meant to take it, not necessarily to read it.' 'Oh, comet A deliberately lifted postcard that you didn't intend to read? That taxes belief a bit, doesn't it?' Goaded, she retorted, 'All right, I might have read it. But I took it, meaning to give it to Nella myself.' 'In other words, you didn't want me to see it?' 'Nella didn't want you to know these letters have been coming^or her.' 'I see. And I suppose she briefed you to intercept any that came for her while she was away? This prize effort, for example?' His knuckle rapped the postcard in his hand. "She didn't brief me! I picked that up on sheer impulse. There have only been two others, anyway.' Mary paused and spread her hands emptily. 'Please, Mr Derwent, don't judge Nella or—or me, until I've explained the whole thing! And I'm only too glad to, believe me.' 'Then do,' he said icily. 'If you can throw any light on what's going on, I'll be grateful. Go ahead, why don't you? What are we waiting for?'

CHAPTER SEVEN TEN minutes later the halting story was told, and Mary felt she could have borne Clive's anger better that his blank incredulity at her part in it. 'You say you went into this cosy pact with Nella on the first night you arrived, but meant to try to dissuade her since? Well, why haven't you? I know she had her accident the next day, but you've seen her on most days since she has been at Queen's Beeches, and you must have had plenty of opportunity to talk her over if you'd wanted to. That is, if you weren't enjoying the intrigue for its own sake.' Mary flushed at the gibe 'That's not very fair comment, Mr Derwent. I've tried to be frank with you. I did know this lone game of Nella's was utterly misguided, and I did mean to persuade her against it if she had discussed it again.' 'What do you mean? If she was as wedded to it as you claim, she must have discussed it with you since.' Mary shook her head. 'Oddly enough, not. She hasn't brought it up once and I thought it wiser not to until she did. I supposed she would some time, but while she didn't it seemed to me as good a sign as her willingness to realise almost at once that she couldn't rely on that as a clue after all this time.' As she spoke Mary indicated the earring she had taken from her bag and handed to Clive, who glanced at it again before putting it in his pocket. His voice still cold, he said, 'Well, I'll accept that you'd come round to agreeing that I could be right, and that the sooner she stopped worrying at the idea of this mythical passenger in the car, the better.

If you thought she had begun to drop it, you. were wise not to bring it up. But you still seem to have had some extraordinary blind spots about the whole affair. For instance, didn't it occur to you that this thing'—he patted his pocket —'should have been gassed at once to the police, as soon as it came into Nella's possession?' 'But I've told you—she refused to show it to you, and as you had told me the police considered the case against there having been a woman in the car as closed, it didn't seem important After all, even Nella herself saw that it was hopeless to try to trace its owner now. An innocent girl could explain its loss, and a guilty one would disown it.' 'All the same, it should have gone at once where it's going now—into police hands. And another point—supposing either of these girls who were the subjects of Nella's amateur investigation had done the sensible thing and- taken advice from a solicitor, Nella could have been faced with an action for defamation of character. What have you to say about that? Not to mention that the tracing of an anonymous letter-writer on a completely cold scent is an almost impossible task, even for the police. So where did either of you suppose concealing them from me would get Nella?' Mary bit her lip. What a bungling fool he must think her! She admitted lamely, 'I'm afraid I didn't realise Nella had no right to question the girl Sally Benson and the other one. I ought to have done, but I didn't. And about the letters—she didn't want them investigated. I mean, she wasn't interested in who might be writing them; only in what the writer might be able to .tell her.' 'M'm. So you've said. Though how she could argue herself into hoping anything of that type of devilry, I don't know. As for this thing'—Clive's nail flicked the card—'it can't be said to take the last false, trail much further, can it?'

Though at the point in her story where she had mentioned Sally, Benson, Clive had stopped Mary and read the postcard's message aloud to her, he now passed it back to her and she read for herself 'Are you sure you didn't let Sally Benson put it over on you, dear? See her again, why don't you? Isn't it worth another journey over to Sway to find out who was really with Ricky that night? As before, it was signed 'A Friend', and on the surface said no more than its fellows had. But somehow to Mary its second reading did say more. What it was evaded her for a moment, but as she returned the card to Clive a memory tapped, then hammered ... She said slowly, 'No. It does look as if the writer's invention were giving out. But whoever wrote it must have known that Nella followed up the last letter and did go to Sway to see Sally Benson. And that—that narrows it down, doesn't it, to someone who could have known she went?' The enormity of her half-formed suspicion almost choked her as she spoke. But Clive shook his head. 'It doesn't follow. This person didn't need to know she went, in order to write this follow-up. However, who, apart from you and myself—she mentioned it at dinner, if you remember— knew she had gone to Sway?' 'I don't know, except that when she came back she told Miss Crispin where she had been. But not why, any more than she told you.' 'So—Leonie, you, myself? Well, if she told no one else, that doesn't do much for your theory, does it? But she may have done, and it's worth looking into, if this dirty business is to be cleared up.' Clive paused and looked straight at Mary. 'You know, I don't give you too many marks for letting your sympathy for Nella run away with that down-to- earth common sense you claim. You must have known she could achieve nothing by these lone wolf tactics of hers.'

Mary sighed. 'Of course I did. I've told you so; I did my best to convince her and I'd begun to think I had succeeded when she hasn't seemed to want to discuss it any more. For one thing, if the anonymous letters mattered to her as much as they did, she would have briefed me to intercept any that came, wouldn't she?' Clive pulled at his lower lip. 'It's a-point, certainly, though I'm afraid your idea she has had a change of heart or intention is so much wishful thinking. Meanwhile, I'm not entirely clueless where she is concerned, you know, and I'm taking over from here, if you don't mind. You've shifted the load now, and all I'm asking of you is. your—co-operation.' Mary said wretchedly, 'You mean you consider I've failed you. And as Nella is bound to think I've failed her, that makes my position here rather—difficult, doesn't it?' She looked at him, appealing to him to understand she was offering him the chance to be rid of her. But he only snapped: 'Don't be defeatist! And for goodness' sake, don't confuse the issue with high-handed threats of presenting me with your notice! You've a contract with me to complete the Cabord manuscript to the best of your ability, and while I'm satisfied with the way you're doing it, I've no intention of allowing you to back down on it without good reason. Understood?' 'I'm not backing down. But if you would like me to leave Kingstree, I could complete it elsewhere.' 'I'm sorry, but as I explained originally, it happens to suit me that you should do it here. So you'll stay until it's finished, please, and I daresay your personal embarrassments will ease out, given time.' His tone cut further argument on the subject, but on his way to the door he paused to add:

'By the way, you needn't feel you owe explanations to William. I shall sound him as to what he may know about Nella's correspondence. But so far as he is concerned with this morning's affair, you happened to pick up the postcard along with your own letter. Good enough?' Mary nodded, grateful to him for easing that minor embarrassment for her, even if it was the very least of the consequences of her folly. He hadn't tried to conceal his disappointment in her and Nella was going to regard her as a traitor, a broken reed, a turncoat to Clive's side. Or was she? Suddenly Mary wondered. Had Nella begun to care less about her lone vendetta since her accident? Clive called it wishful thinking to believe she had, but Mary was convinced she was becoming more relaxed, less thorny and even sometimes gay. It was almost as if, thought Mary gropingly, as if other things were superseding it in her mind, dwarfing its importance by contrast ... Or as if she were finding a different, healthier use for the flame which had fed her hatred of an unknown-woman who probably didn't even exist... A different use, a sweeter use, a—loving use? Did the vindication of her fiance matter less to Nella now because the miracle of loving again had happened for her already and she had someone to put in Ricky's place? Someone ...? As if an elusive, though far from the final, piece of a jigsaw puzzle had fitted into place, Mary murmured the answer aloud: 'Barney! Barney Ford -' and looked at the picture as far as it went. Barney, savage with fear for Nella ... Nella, cradled and comforted in his arms ... Barney bringing to Nella's sickroom the daily 'shop' of the stable world ... Nella, fretful and distraite if he were late or did not

come ... Both of them teasing and belittling each other when they were together.... Each hotly praising or defending the other when they were not--Oh, please, Mary found herself praying, even if they don't know it themselves yet, let that be the way things are going for them! Let it add up! Meanwhile as soon as Clive left her, she faced the hideous suspicion she could not voice to him, Leonie Crispin hated Nella. She knew Nella had been over to Sway. When they met in the forest yesterday she had mentioned casually to Mary that she had spent the morning in Southampton and the anonymous postcard had been sent from the city. Anonymous letters were written in the very ink of hate, and Leonie hated Nella. So much on the one side. What on the other? Would Leonie, as intolerant as she was of Nella's obsession with her tragedy, deliberately probe at it and so foster it, by writing her anonymous letters about it? Moreover, Leonie would have known that Nella would still be at Queen's Beeches when the postcard arrived, and she would surely not have sent it, knowing it might fall into other hands. No, on cool analysis, the suspicion appeared to have no substance. But as Mary abandoned it, she could not have said whether she did so in genuine relief or in reluctance to believe that in Nella's background there was someone other than Leonie who hated the girl as much as Leonie did. To Mary, doing her best to concentrate on work, the morning seemed interminable. She knew Clive had originally planned to bring Nella home to luncheon, but they did not come and Mary lunched alone. Mr Clive had telephoned, William reported, that unexpected business had taken them into Ringwood where they were lunching and they would be home later—news which confirmed for Mary that Clive had lost no time in taking the action which Nella's secrecy had denied him until now.

She expected to hear no more until they arrived. But shortly after she had returned to the study William switched a call there and Nella was on the line. "Nella, sounding diffident, said, 'Hello, Mary. I'm calling from The Bear in Ringwood. I suppose you can guess that Clive yanked me straight over here to see the police. We're coming home now, but my ringing you first was his idea. He said it might be easier if we talked before we met. Easier for me, that is, to say I'm -' She broke off. Then in a rush of words: 'Look, "sorry" doesn't express enough, I suppose. But I am. For dragging you into this beastly business, I mean. You see, I'd only wanted you to hold your tongue and I hadn't foreseen that you'd think you had to lie for me and carry the can as you did this morning. I—I don't think I've ever seen Clive so angry—stone cold angry—before.' 'Angry with me?' Asking the question hurt. 'Angry with you? Good heavens, no! Nor with me really. Oh, he questioned me without mercy and gave me the works for involving you. But he seemed to be angry in a kind of baffled way, as if he felt cheated because there was nobody at the receiving end. And it was so much what I've felt myself—sort of knotted inside and quite powerless—that it shows me it was probably a mistake, trying to shut him out.' Mary drew a long breath. "You mean—you're accepting that he does care and that he is really on your side? You're not fighting him any more? You're willing for him to take over?' Nella said drily, 'I've been left a lot of choice, haven't I? But yes—I think I'm glad to.' She paused there. Then: 'And that's not altogether true either, because, do you know, I'm just realising that I couldn't care less? And not just about tracing this anonymous character,

because I never have much cared who she is, but about all the rest too. Finding that other girl, I mean; making her confess what happened the night Ricky died - Somehow it doesn't matter as much as it did, though why it doesn't I don't know when I've thought of practically nothing else for months. And it isn't just because Clive has promised to have the thing sifted to the bottom or even because it helped, telling you. It's something that has happened inside me, and it happened at the oddest time. You'll never guess!' Mary smiled to herself. 'Tell me,' she invited. 'Well, it was when Barney was telling me about this riding party he plans to take to the Trossachs in August. He sort of assumed I should be going as his second-in- command, and suddenly I knew I wanted to, more than anything. Discussing it with Barney was the very first time for ages that I felt happy and without the ache over Ricky lying in wait for me. Afterwards I felt guilty about that, but since, do you know, none of it has hurt as much?' 'My dear, you can't know how glad I am to hear it. And even Ricky couldn't want you to feel guilty for being happy again,' Mary assured her. 'Have you told Barney, by the way, all you told me?' 'No. But he'll hear now. Clive says the police will question everyone in sight about those beastly letters. Even people like Barney— imagine! Clive has to let the police know if any more come for me, but I don't suppose any will now.' 'That's what you were afraid of, once the police knew of them, wasn't it? But why should you think they won't?' 'I don't know. But if the woman who is writing them is among the people the police question, she'll be scared off writing any more, surely? Although Clive and the police hope she'll go on, of course. They say the scent on the others is cold by now, and for her to write

others is their one slender chance of tracing her and finding out what she really knows.' 'Yes, perhaps, though there could be another clue, you' know. Weren't you asked, for instance, who knew you'd been to Sway to see Sally Benson?' queried Mary. 'Oh, the message on the postcard? Yes, they're working on that, on the off-chance it's someone who knew I went. But it's such an absurd list, Mary! Clive knew; you did; you were there when I told Leonie. Mrs. Hancock and William knew after I came back and one at least of Barney's lads knew before I went. I rang the stables to say I shouldn't be over, and this boy took the message to pass on to Barney,, who may have mentioned it to his mother too. But that's about as far as it went, I daresay, and who, among that lot, would -?' 'And you haven't any idea of your own, any, as to who it might be?' Mary put in. Silence. But when Nella said slowly, 'There's only one person—or I hope there is—who hates me enough, and for various reasons she's a non-starter.' Mary knew they shared the same thought—that though Leonie Crispin had no motive, she had malice enough and to spare. After Nella had hung up, Mary wondered how much the girl knew or guessed of Leonie's part in the accident which might have killed her. For if she knew nothing, would she have used a word as strong as 'hates' when, of any ordinary antagonism, 'dislikes' or 'resents' would have served? *** The police questioning of Nella's circle was as thorough as it was discreet. Everyone was subjected to it, including Mary and the two girls named by the anonymous letter- writer, both of whom were able to prove they could not have been with Curtis on the night of his

death. Everyone was required to give examples of their handwriting and script lettering, and every woman—this time excepting Mary— was asked if she had ever owned or could identify the earring found in the car. As was to be expected, no one admitted to it. True to Nella's prediction, the anonymous letters ceased; the police were noncommittal about the progress of their inquiries, and after the stir caused by the questioning and the resultant gossip, it seemed that the people whose lives had been touched by Nella's tragedy were free for a while to forget it. And though the underlying tension remained, Nella herself appeared to be less affected by it than anyone. For Mary the passing of the lengthening spring days was measured by the increasing pile of manuscript she had completed to Clive's satisfaction and by the daily riding lessons which Nella was giving her. Barney put his mildest mannered hack at Mary's disposal and every afternoon both girls went to Queen's Beeches where Mary walked, trotted and cantered her mount; learned the essentials of saddling and grooming and wondered—often with her aching muscles rather than with her mind, she felt!—whether she would ever acquire the confidence and poise of a good rider. Everyone assured her it would 'come', as the ability to swim or to ride a bicycle did. But though in her dreams she frequently found she was riding a winged Pegasus with complete aplomb, she rather doubted it when she was astride the solid back of a real horse. Nella had not yet trusted her to go out alone when, on their arrival at the stables one day, Barney said he wanted Nella to go with him to a sale of forest ponies at Lyndhurst, and if Mary didn't mind he would send her out with one of the stable lads instead. 'The snag is that Joe is the only one available and he's not here. Yes, I know—sounds Irish!' Barney grinned. 'But the others have taken out

a string on an all-day party and Joe has gone on an emergency shoeing job. He'll be back by half-past four, and though I've told him he can scram for the night at five-thirty—speedway racing at Southampton, I think—that'll still give him time to take you out, and meanwhile Mother wondered if you would go up to the house and have tea with her.' 'Or she could come to Lyndhurst with us, couldn't she?' suggested Nella. After a moment: 'Why, yes, if she wants to,' Barney agreed. But Mary thought she had read a hint in his pause and claimed quickly she would love to have tea with Mrs Ford, even though experience told her she was inviting herself to a cross between an oral examination and a marathon eating contest. Today's tea party proved no exception. 'Come along, dear—you've had nothing! Teacake? Drop scones? Some more tea? How is your riding coming along? You haven't looked in to see me lately—why not?' Her hostess plied food and questions impartially, and it was a relief when, accepting that Mary could really eat no more, she offered cigarettes instead. 'Such a nice chance for a chat, dear, with Leonie out- lunching with Clive, I think, though she tends to treat this house like a hotel and never says where she's goiijg or where she's been, unless I ask. And another thing—do you know she has never yet had the courtesy to tell me how matters stand between them? Not until, that is, I taxed her with it the other day, when she said—as if I ought to know—that of course they were engaged, what did I suppose? Was that good enough, or did I expect to be asked for my blessing before they announced it? If so, I had only to let her know!'

'Did she say—when they are announcing it?' asked Mary through dry lips. 'Quite soon, I think. Of course I told Leonie—with some dignity, I hope—that while I didn't ask for any Yea or Nay in her affairs, equally I thought, as her hostess and her aunt, I shouldn't be faced with the fait accompli of, say, an announcement in The Times. Then I think she saw she had been wantonly rude and she climbed down a little. Said she had fallen in with Clive's wishes—he didn't want Nella upset—but with her coming-of-age they probably wouldn't wait any longer then.' Stating, not asking, Mary said: 'And Nella is eighteen three weeks today.' 'Yes. The twenty-fifth, isn't it? Let's hope this other wretched business is cleared up for the child by then--Anyway, I suppose we can expect to see Leonie wearing Clive's ring before long, and I must say, though perhaps I shouldn't, I shan't be sorry to see her leave Queen's Beeches for Kingstree. Barney and I are the only family she has, and I was only too glad to have her share .our home when she came back to England. But she has never fitted in, if you understand. Barney and I are working folk—we have to be, and there's no room here, I always say, for anyone who doesn't pull their weight. As Leonie has never done, and as—Nella never could.' 'Nella?' For a moment Mary did not get the reference. 'Yes, Nella.' Mrs Ford, who had no ease of manner in smoking, puffed shortly at her cigarette several times before adding, 'I won't deny, dear, that I wanted to see you alone, in order to talk to you about this. Because you see, as soon as I met you I was struck by how natural and homely and cut out to make a good wife you seemed, and how nice, I thought, if you and Barney should take to each other. But perhaps you had guessed, had you, dear? I know

Leonie said the other day that though you weren't every man's idea of a pin-up—her phrase, I assure you, dear!—if only I didn't try so hard to "sell" you to Barney—another vulgarity of hers, I'm afraid—he might look at you twice himself in time. And though that was unkind of her, it did make me wonder whether you might think I really was matchmaking for matchmaking's sake, my dear.' 'Oh, Mrs Ford, you've never been anything but as normally welcoming and hospitable as I could wish!' Mary protested, and was at once rewarded for the half-truth by the relief in her hostess's face. 'So good of you to say so, dear! I confess I do want to see Barney settled and happy, and as I told Leonie, as long as you had no other attachments and he hadn't, what was wrong in seeing that you had every chance of its working out? But that was before -' Mrs Ford paused to discard her half-smoked cigarette as if it had failed her as a moral support, and repeated weightily, 'That was before he told me, Mary, my dear, that if she'll have him, he means to marry Nella! That was only yesterday, and when he told me all I could say was, "Oh, Barney—no!" But when he said that if he didn't marry Nella he wouldn't marry anyone, then I had to tell him in plain language just why it wouldn't do!' 'But wouldn't it?' asked Mary gently. 'Oh no, dear. Not at all. For one thing, she's too young. For another'—Mrs Ford enumerated on her fingers— 'she's quite feckless about most things. She can't cook; she can't sew, and I doubt if she has ever shopped for food except by telephone. She has no idea of how to budget and has never had to manage staff, for the Hancocks run Kingstree for Clive and know their job far too well. No indeed— she has none of the makings of a wife for Barney, and though she's to be pitied for that affair of Rickman Curtis, as I said to Barney, he mustn't mortgage his whole future, just because he's sorry for her.'

'But did Barney give you to believe he wants to marry Nella only out of pity?' queried Mary. 'Oh no. He claims to have loved her since before she met Curtis and has only been biding his time until she seemed to be forgetting the fellow. He decided there was a chance for him when she was here with us after her accident on Tarquin, and though he agreed with me on every point I made as to why it wouldn't do, when I'd finished he just laughed and said, So what? He'd take it from me that Nella mightn't know a darning needle from a pressure cooker and didn't have a clue about keeping a bank balance out of the red. Meanwhile she was his girl, did I hear? He wasn't grumbling if she couldn't boil an egg or if she dusted before she swept. She was just as he wanted her, and if she'd have him he was going to marry her -Oh, a lot more in that vein. I've never seen him so set on anything, Mary, nor so oblivious to advice from me!' 'And you were hurt, naturally.' Mary, nodding her sympathy, had been doing some quick thinking and was now resolved on guile. She went on, 'All the same, Mrs Ford, may I say I'm quite sure you wouldn't have wished Barney not to be as sure of his own mind as he claimed? You must be glad, surely, that he does care for someone as deeply as he says he cares for Nella, even if she turns him down?' Mrs Ford's jaw dropped. 'Are you suggesting that Nella might turn him down?' she demanded. Mary shrugged. 'I don't know. It's very possible, I should think. Even if she's beginning to get over Rickman Curtis, I'd say she has still a lot of sorting out to do. And if she's in love with Barney, it's rather odd, don't you think, that though she and I have talked about almost everything under the sun, she has never let me guess that she thinks of him as anything more than a friend?'

In the small silence which greeted that Mary had to promise her intuition and her regard for the strict letter of truth that she would make her peace with them later. Then Mrs Ford, her tone blank, said: "Well, I certainly hadn't envisaged that Barney didn't know, more or less, that Nella would jump at him if he asked her. After all, one assumes that young people understand each other very well before it comes to an actual proposal. And why should she refuse him, come to that? You'd think she would realise, considering they've known each other since she was so high that the interest they share in their riding and the stables, that she has a great deal more in common with Barney than she had with Curtis, who was nothing but a sophisticated playboy who managed to turn her head!' Mary pursed her lips, as if in doubt of the value of the argument. She hesitated, 'Ye-s. Though you can't legislate for love, can you? Interests in common count, naturally. But -' 'Of course they count, dear!' Mrs Ford cut in briskly. 'You should give Barney credit for knowing how all-important they are in marriage, and why you should think that Nella -But dear me, you're not insinuating, surely, that she considers him beneath her in any way?' 'Oh no. There's never been any suggestion of that,' said Mary readily. Mrs Ford bridled. 'I should hope not indeed! It's the last thing I should care to believe of the child, for as far as family goes, the Fords can match the Derwents, in that we both go back as far as Domesday. What's more, I can't help wondering if Nella has been quite open with you, Mary. By all the signs I've seen, she's very fond of Barney, and really I begin to wonder if I haven't made a little too much of the difference in age between them. Eight years ... Not too many, and on the right side. Rather nice, don't you think, for both when the husband is a little older?'

On the edge, razor-thin though if might be, of triumph, Mary was only too ready to agree. Whereupon Mrs Ford swept on to further efforts in self-conviction. 'And that Nella is young,' she argued, 'may be all to the good too. So much easier to teach young people before they have anything to unlearn and while they're still adaptable! In fact, I could quite enjoy helping her to make a happy background for Barney. Not interfering, you know—just being there for her when she wanted to turn to me - Yes, I begin to see her as his wife, I do indeed! I wonder when he means to ask her, if he hasn't yet. Perhaps he's waiting until she comes of age. when she can say "Yes" without needing any consent from Clive. Not that he would withhold it, of course, for he must know as well as I do how completely suited to each other they are!' It was an about-face which, though she had engineered it, left Mary breathless. But deciding that Mrs Ford could now be trusted without prompting to see nothing but good in the prospect, she rose to go. Mrs Ford rose too, but absently, her mind patently on more important matters than speeding a mere guest. At parting from Mary, however, she rallied. 'So understanding of you, dear, to agree with me that it, would never have done—you and Barney, I mean. Because you haven't anything really in common, have you? And I know you wouldn't have cared at all to come between him and Nella, would you?' she urged. 'I shouldn't indeed,' Mary agreed gravely. And then fled from the risk that, by another lightning mental somersault, Mrs Ford might next accuse her of deliberately keeping Barney and Nella apart! ***

Down at the stables Joe had Hector, Mary's mount, saddled and ready for her. She was late, she knew, and told the lad she was sorry, and when they returned from their ride she asked him to let her rub down and stable Hector by herself. 'If you'll trust me, that is? Because I know Mr Ford said you wanted to be away by half-past five,' she added. Joe glanced at the stable clock. 'Yes, well, I did, miss. But do you think you can manage? It'd be very good of you, if you can. If not, you could leave him until the string comes in; they won't be long now.' 'No, I'd like to do him,' said Mary. 'If you'll take his gear along to the saddle-room I'll do the rest and leave him all snug before I go.' Joe agreed gratefully, led Hector into his box and relieved Mary of the saddle and bridle she took off. Returning a few minutes later, wheeling his motor-bike and bringing her the horse blanket, he warned: 'Careful of the door, miss. I'm hooking it back until you've finished, because th'old outside bolt to it runs too loose in the socket, see what I mean? Could make a prisoner of you, if it slammed in this wind!' 'Thank you, Joe.' 'You don't mind me leaving you, miss?' 'No, of course not.' For several minutes Mary could hear the motorbike spluttering away into the distance, then there was only the sound of Hector shifting position under her vigorous grooming of him and an occasional movement and expelled sigh from Mariella, the mare Leonie usually rode, who was in the stall next door. The lads and horses of the riding party had not returned by the time she had finished and had shut Hector in for the night. She spoke a

word or two to Mariella on her way out, and then, halfway across the yard, remembered the pullover she had discarded and hung on a nail in Hector's box. Back there again, because reaching the pullover was a matter of only a few paces, she omitted to hook the door;- as she turned a busy gust of wind got behind it and in spite of her plunge towards it, it slammed and she heard the outside bolt run loosely home. Well! And after Joe had warned her too! Now she was a prisoner and must meekly await rescue from her role as Hector's unbidden guest. Meanwhile Hector, who didn't mind standing, had all the best of it; there was nothing for her to sit on unless she cornered some of his straw. This, with due apology, she did, sitting with her back to the wall, hands clasped about her knees, watching Hector nod and doze arid hearing the gentle 'clop' of his hooves on the floor as he eased and relaxed weight on his leg muscles. And presently she drowsed herself. She woke with a start to the first shadows of twilight and to a noise which, by contrast with the silence that had lulled her, was clamour. Hector, turned restless, was backing and circling and weaving with his head. And from next door it sounded as if Mariella was in worse panic, skittering and plunging and whinnying with fear. As Mary scrambled to her feet it seemed as if the partition between the boxes had taken the whole of the mare's weight. And Mary, fully alert now, realised why. There was smoke in Mariella's box! Insidious, slow, curling in the draught, wisps of it were coming through the high vents in the partition, and instinct had already warned both animals of potential danger lying in wait. They might never have seen fire out of control, but all their ancestry was telling them that it was to be feared.

Mary stood, rigid, knowing her own panic and aware for the first time in her life that hair could indeed seem to 'stand on end'. Her scalp crawled and prickled with fear, though less for herself than for the horses whom she was powerless to reassure. If she could not get out of the box, neither could they. She could not tell them why, and how long, how long before the smoke sparked to flame and both boxes became an inferno? And this plight, in face of the cruel irony of a row of full fire buckets standing outside! As she stood, fighting her terror, she thought she heard a warning crackle and she forced herself to call soothingly to Mariella. But the mare was not to be Calmed by a voice she did not know very well, and her desperate whickering and lunging intensified until Mary began to pray that she might even free herself by kicking her way through the loosebox door. But Mary dared not wish the same of Hector. As yet he was calmer than the mare, but in those narrow confines she already had difficulty in anticipating and keeping clear of his cavortings, and if he should panic in earnest she blenched at the thought that, lunging blind, he could crush her with his weight or catch her with his flailing hooves. How she wished she had not sent away his bridle by Joe! As it was, she had nothing which could serve as a halter, though she had had hopes of a length of straw plait she found in a corner, only for it to prove too short. In renewed frenzy she rattled impotently at the doorlatch— added irony that she was not even locked in!—and beat with her fists on the door, even though she knew the only living creatures within earshot were the two animals who were imprisoned with her. As far as she could tell there was still no flame in the next-door box. But the smoke was thicker now, not curling but fanning through the vents in clouds, stinging her throat and her eyeballs. Then there was flame—a single, darting tongue of it, she thought, though she could see only its reflection through the vents—and Mariella's scream chilled the very blood in Mary's veins.

And then, .at the nadir of her despair, there were other things happening. The rhythmic clop-clop of hooves in the yard ... lads' voices talking, then arrested by the uproar from the looseboxes, then shouting ... and the sound of a car being driven slowly into the yard in the wake of the string of horses. Mary did not know what happened next. But seconds later both Mariella and Hector were freed and were being gentled by two of the lads while the other two flung water into the burning box. And she— hands outspread and half blind with smoke—had stumbled out to be caught into Clive's arms. She did hot question how or why he came to be there. She was only grateful that momentarily she had his strength to lean upon and could not care that just behind him Leonie, cool and urbane even at such a moment, was there too. His hold upon Mary was taut, unyielding, yet infinitely protective. When, her voice wavering, out of control, she protested, 'It was my fault! I—I-—' He ordered, 'Be quiet. Give in for a minute. Mary, do you hear? Give in!' and, a- hand behind her head, persuaded her face into the curve of his shoulder. Though her nerves had been at snapping point, it was all the refuge she needed. As she submitted, the weak tremor of her limbs stilled and a brief surging glory ran along her veins instead. At a point of crisis—however small for him—she had heard him call her 'Mary'. And now she could believe that he had done it before, that, off guard, he did forget she was merely 'Miss Smith'. Steadied now and equal to facing him without letting the glory show, she lifted her head. But his face was too close to enable her to bring it into focus, and instead her eyes went beyond him to something, enigmatic and ugly, that she saw in Leonie's face.

CHAPTER EIGHT 'ALL right now?' As Clive put the question he held Mary back from him, a hand under each of her elbows, and then released her. 'Yes. Idiotic of me -' She ran her fingers through the disorder of her hair and looked about her for Mariella and Hector. 'The horses -?' 'They've come to no harm,' he told her. 'But it seems to have been touch and go in the matter of time, and how on earth did you manage to be shut in with Hector? Or was it with the mare? Hard to see through the clouds of smoke that came out with you.' 'With Hector.' But Barney and Nella arrived just then and as, at sight of the crowded yard, Barney leapt from his car with a 'What the heck's going on here?' Mary's story had to wait to be told to him. 'Phe-ew!' Barney let a long-drawn whistle escape through his teeth and his face darkened ominously. He glanced in at Mariella's smokeblackened box, strode over to where both horses stood, examined them and then swung round on the group of stable lads. 'Which of you stabled Mariella? You, Ben, wasn't it? Smoking against orders?' 'Yes, sir. That is, no, sir. I mean, it was me, but I don't smoke, sir.' 'No, you don't, do you? Anyone else with you or hanging round talking to you?' 'I don't think so, sir. People was coming and going in the yard all the time.' 'That was this morning, after her exercise, and she hasn't been out again. Who was about while you .were rubbing down, can you remember?'

Ben looked confused. 'The others was around, getting ready to go out with the string. The feed man from Ring- wood called and someone told him you were out, sir.' 'Did he go near Mariella's box? Was he smoking?' 'He stood just outside watching Ben for a minute or two, but I couldn't say if he had a cigarette on, sir,' contributed the lad who had spoken to the feed merchant. '—And Miss Crispin looked in to say she wouldn't want Mariella later as she was lunching with Mr Derwent --' Barney cut Ben short and rounded on Leonie. 'Were you smoking in Mariella's box this morning?' Leonie shrugged. 'My dear boy, how do you think I can remember? I was only there for a second to tell Ben I shouldn't want the mare. And even if I had been, how could a cigarette start a fire that long afterwards?' 'Could be. I've known dropped ash smoulder in straw or in a manger and start a fire hours later. And you know my rules. You can read, can't you?' Barney jerked a thumb at the prominent 'No Smoking In The Boxes' notice over each doorway. 'That meant the clients as well as the lads and myself, and no one but a moron would want to question the reason for it.' 1 'Are you calling me a moron?' bridled Leonie. 'I'd be calling you something worse if I thought you were responsible for this to-do! But not to worry, if your conscience doesn't bother you. Obviously I can't prove anything -' Barney checked and turned back to the lads.

'All right, fellers. Get them bedded down now. Put Mariella in the spare box. We'll have a fuller post-mortem in the morning, and if any man jack of you knows more than he's admitted, he can count himself darned lucky it isn't a real post-mortem!' The lads scattered. Ignoring Barney, Leonie said to Clive, 'You'll come up to the house for a drink, won't you?' and went hack to his .car, and Barney asked Clive, 'How come you were here, anyway?' Clive said, 'At this hour I thought I was more likely to catch you here, rather than up at the house. I want you to manage a deal for me. I want you to buy in another mount forme.' -^ 'Another-^—?' Barney stared. 'You're thinking of selling Oriel?' he asked, referring to the big bay which Clive kept at Kingstree and which he rode at weekends. 'Oh no.' Clive shook his head. 'I mean I want a second mount and I'm commissioning you to buy it for me, if you will.' -. 'Well, thanks.' Barney looked pleased. 'What sort of particulars, though? What kind of price?' 'I wouldn't set a limit, if you could produce the right animal—to a deadline of time.' Barney frowned. 'That's asking a bit! How long can you give me?' 'Say a fortnight. Three weeks at the outside. As for the rest -' Clive touched Barney on the arm and they strolled aside, Barney nodding and scuffing at the ground with the toe of his boot as he listened to the other man's instructions. Then Barney lifted his head and talked, and it was Clive's turn to listen. Watching them, Nella frowned. 'Funny. Clive hasn't uttered to me that he was thinking of getting another mount. Why should he want

one? 'Tisn't as if he rode to hounds regularly. He only has time to turn out once or twice in the season. So why, I ask you?' Though she put the question to Mary, a second later she answered it herself. 'Bet you! Bet you anything Leonie has been moaning that Barney doesn't always let her have Marietta, and he's buying it for her!' 'He said he wanted it for himself,' said Mary. 'Maybe he had to. If Barney is to bring horses here or over to Kingstree for his approval, Leonie's almost bound to know. But if he wants to surprise her, he has only to let Barney into the secret, and as Leonie, give her her due, can ride anything as powerful as he can, she needn't guess it's a present for her until he chooses to tell her so. But why the deadline? Why three weeks?' To that Mary did not reply, believing she knew the answer. And Nella, after another moment's thought, claimed she knew it too. 'So that's why!. My birthday! It's more her deadline than Clive's— she's getting him to announce their engagement as soon as I'm legally off his hands, and the new horse is for an engagement present, not just an un-birthday one as I thought! And to think how I'd have cared, how mad I should have been if -' Suddenly Nella broke off, threw back her head and laughed in a rich throaty chuckle of sheer glee. 'Oh, Mary, this is good! Much too good to keep, even though I did promise Barney -We're going up to the house anyway, so come and get into his car, and I'll tell you!' In the car Mary said, smiling, 'Don't tell me. Let me guess. You and Barney -He's asked you to marry him and you want to. And that's why you don't mind so much about Leonie and Clive? How's that?' Nella stared, open-mouthed. 'You knew? But how?'

'I didn't know. But I'd been wondering. You—you've been so much happier, Nella.' The girl nodded. 'Yes. I told you—it all began while I was here for that fortnight after Tarquin threw me. Every day it was as if some more clouds rolled away and a bit more sun shone through. That's the only way I can describe it— gradually knowing I was falling in love with Barney and— and, well sort of knowing that he felt the same about me. But I never knew it showed, so how did you guess?' Mary laughed. 'I'll confess—I only hoped. I didn't really guess for myself. It was Mrs Ford who told me Barney meant to ask you, and she did that only this afternoon.' 'She told you? Help! Was she taking it and gnashing her teeth? Or was she declaring that over her dead body would she have me for a daughter-in-law?' 'Neither. She's convinced you and Barney are made for each other and she's making the cosiest plans for welcoming you at Queen's Beeches as his wife. I don't think she believed it was quite so imminent, but I'm sure she loves the idea.' 'I don't believe it! Barney said we should have a rough passage, because, while he thought there wasn't any hope for him with me, and especially when I got engaged to Kicky, he let her dabble in matchmaking for him. It amused her and as he wasn't forced to take to any of the girls she produced on her short list, no harm done, he thought. But now giving her her head is coming home to roost and he says she's fighting his having chosen me for himself all along the line,' declared Nella, mixing her metaphors with abandon. Mary shook her head. 'But she isn't. You'll see!'

'She can't have changed her mind in a single afternoon! Unless—Mary—have you had anything to do with it?' 'In a single afternoon? How could I?' parried Mary. But before she had to elaborate on that Barney had joined them. Clive went over to his own car, backed it out of the yard, and the other three were alone. Barney opened the car door on to Nella in the driving seat. 'Hullo— you driving?' he asked. 'No. You are. I'll get into the back in a minute. But first, Barney— what's Clive's idea about this new horse?' 'You heard, honey. He's decided to keep a second mount.' 'Eyewash! He's never even contemplated keeping two horses for himself. He plans to give it to Leonie, doesn't he?' 'Not that he told me.' 'But he must be! Wasn't that why he took you aside—to tell you he meant it for her, but to keep it under your hat?' 'It was not. When we ambled off just now he asked me what I thought might be available and I told him of one or two possibles I knew. Hand on heart, my dear cousin's name wasn't mentioned. So if he intends it as a present for her, he wasn't telling me. Now may I have my seat?' 'Yes, I suppose so. No, listen! I've just told Mary about us! Yes, I know we were going to ask Clive to bring her over this evening and we'd tell them all together. But somehow it came out, and anyway she says she had partly guessed already.' 'Guessed? That's the understatement of the year, I'd say. Why, she practically mixed the love potion!' grinned Barney.

'Mary did?' Nella's glance went from him to Mary and back again. 'How?' 'Never mind. Say she gave me a hint weeks ago that if Barney F. played his cards right when the time was ripe, there might be a chance for him -' Barney broke off and looked across at Mary. 'Satisfied with your handiwork, eh?' 'On the contrary, all your own work! But I am happy about it—very,' she told him, and knew they were sharing a memory of their first talk on the afternoon when they had not known where or in what danger Nella might be. 'Yes, well'—Nella claimed Barney's attention again— 'your mother talked about us to Mary this afternoon and what do you think? Mary says she has come round! In fact, according to Mary, she can hardly wait for us to announce that we're engaged.' Barney-looked at his watch. 'Well, I calculate she'll be hearing in about ten minutes from now. But though nothing will make any difference, with all respect to Mary, I don't think Mother is going to give in as easily as all that, honey.' 'Would you believe me if I told you that when I left Mrs Ford, she was bubbling over in anticipation of just when you might announce your engagement?' Mary asked him. 'Happy about it! Really looking forward to it!' Barney shook his head. 'I'd give a lot to believe you. But the last time we discussed it—deadlock. You see, if I'd asked Nella here to marry me when I first fell in love with the child, I could have been accused of cradle- snatching. So I bided my time and, fool that I was, missed my chance'—he avoided direct mention of Ricky—'and so gave Mother the idea I couldn't care less whether I married or not. She, on the other hand, Has always been sold on the thought of seeing me

hitched up to the right little woman, and now, bless her earnest heart, she won't concede that I know Nella is the only little woman for me.' Mary wrinkled her nose at him. 'Will you bet on that?' 'Bet on it? It'd be a shame to take your money! Hold hard, though— would you be ready to bet if you didn't know something? And if you do, then -' 'But she obviously does!' cut in Nella. 'And if she does, it must be because somehow she has persuaded Mrs Ford on to our side!' 'Sorry, honey! Mother's heels were still firmly dug in this morning, and since then Mary has had just about an hour for persuasion. Again with all respect—no can do!' Mary smiled. 'And how right you are, at that. But you see, I didn't try persuasion. I suggested—only suggested, mind you—that even if you asked Nella to marry you, she might refuse.' 'You did what?' the other two demanded in chorus. 'Just that,' Mary claimed demurely. 'And you mean,' said Barney, working it out, 'Mother was so piqued by the thought that any girl would have the nerve not to jump at me as a prospective husband that she's ready to persuade herself? In other words, Nella will accept me and like it, or Mother will want to know the reason why? Nella is the blue-eyed girl, and in about ten seconds flat from your suggestion that she might turn me down, Mother had decided she had chosen her and she should take me, or else- -?' 'Something like that, I think.'

'Then you're a diplomatist of the first water, Mary Smith! And on second thoughts we won't bet, eh, Nella, in case she doesn't think it would be a shame to take our money?' grinned Barney. They all laughed at that, and Mary had to give a more or less verbatim report of Mrs Ford's conversion before Nella would agree to go up to the house. When at last she gave up the driving seat to Barney, before he took it he beckoned to his senior lad who was finishing the last of the chores. 'When you're through,' Barney told him, 'take yourself and the others down to the Forest Arms for a pint apiece on me. I've got something to celebrate myself tonight. Meet the future Mrs Guv'nor, Tom!' Tom stared. 'You mean Miss Nella, guv'nor? Oh, congratulations, sir! And miss- -! Couldn't ask for better news, meself. Come to think of it too, Joe was saying the other day he wondered if you'd make a stab at asking her.''Then you can tell Joe from me that let him try fixing the date of the wedding as well, and he's due for a thick ear,' returned Barney mildly. 'Yes, guv'nor. I'll tell him,' said Tom, enjoying the joke. And then added diffidently, 'About Mariella's box, guv'nor —I think you can take it it wasn't any of the lads' fault. They know what they'll get from me as well as from you if they're caught smoking in the boxes.' Barney switched on and slammed the door of the car. 'All right, Tom. It could have been pure accident," and I never really hoped we could lay the blame anywhere. So forget it, will you, and tell them they can? No post-mortem. Incident closed.' But his tone left his listeners in doubt that he wished it need not be.

Half an hour later, the news had been told, and Mrs Ford, increasingly self-convinced that the engagement had always been her dearest wish, had made great ceremony of producing a bottle of wine from the small cellar laid down by Barney's father for just such milestones in his son's life. Leonie's reaction was cool. Nella's plans were her own affair and a matter of indifference to her, her reception of the news implied. There was an awkward moment also when she made a show of kissing Nella as the others did. Nella only just did not jerk her cheek away. But her eyes, smiling a moment earlier, turned sullen, and Mary, watching Clive, knew that the girl's childish scrubbing at the spot which Leonie's lips had touched had not escaped him. Clive's own pleasure was undisguised. He went to Nella quickly and for a wordless moment brother and sister clung together, as they must often have hugged when they were children, Mary thought, and realised that it was the first warmly spontaneous embrace she had seen them exchange. But if she believed it marked the yielding of the last barriers Nella had erected between herself and Clive, the next week or two were to prove her wrong. On the surface all was well. Nella was happy, making long-term plans for a July wedding and lighthearted ones for the coming-of-age dance Clive was giving for her on her birthday. But on one score— his relations with Leonie —the old stony reserve was still there. Urge Nella as she might to face the fact of Leonie and of Clive's unannounced, engagement, Mary could not persuade the girl even to broach the subject with him nor even to mention Leonie if she could help it. 'If he wants me to know he's going to marry her, he's got a tongue in his head and he can tell me so himself,' Nella declared woodenly in

answer to Mary's argument that, though Clive had as much right to his love affair as Nella had to hers, surely she could credit him with caring enough for her to want to talk about it to her, if she ever gave him an opening, which she did not. Over and over Mary's theme was: 'You owe it to Clive to clear the air between you with regard to Leonie.' She said it in a dozen different ways and always with conviction. But equally over and over Nella's retort was: 'He owes it to me, you mean. Does he think I'm blind, or what? He must know how I feel about it, and if he cared he'd want to try to make me see his side of it. But unless he tells me of his own accord, I'm not asking.' It was an attitude which completely baffled Maryland it was typified by Nella's refusal to show, in Clive's presence, any curiosity about the new horse he had commissioned Barney to buy. She had decided in her own mind that he meant it as a present for Leonie, and that was enough for her. The fact that she knew Barney was considering the merits of one or two horses that were considerably lighter and less powerful than Clive's present mount only confirmed her conviction. And when, a week before her birthday, Barney brought one of them, a lovely dark chestnut, to Kingstree for Clive's inspection, she made an excuse for not going to the stable to look at it. It was so unusual for Nella to evince no interest in anything to do with horseflesh that Mary expected Clive would question such indifference. If he did, Mary resolved, she would tell him herself what Nella's jealousy feared. But he did not. He merely nodded, 'Please yourself,' and suggested Mary should go instead. The horse was a beautiful animal. Mary stood watching in Admiration as first Barney and then Clive put him through his paces in the paddock adjoining the stable. When Clive dismounted:

'Yes, I think so,' he said to Barney. And to Mary: 'How would you say Nella is going to like him?' 'Nella?' Mary heard Barney laugh and looked at him to confirm that she had heard Clive aright. Barney chuckled, 'Yep—Clive's present for her birthday, though she hasn't a clue.' And Clive said, 'You see, you can't exactly gift- wrap a horse and present it at the breakfast table, so I decided to pretend I wanted it for myself, You'll keep the secret, won't you?' 'Why, yes, of course! I—I hadn't guessed and, as Barney says, I'm sure Nella hasn't.' If Barney hadn't told Clive Nella thought the horse was for Leonie, this wasn't the time to mention it, Mary decided. All was well that ended well... And though she had no right to let it matter, she knew a secret relief of her own that Nella's sour suspicions had been wrong. The dance was to be on a scale with which the resources of Kingstree could not cope. So it was to be catered for by a famous London firm and held in the spacious reception hall which formed the greater part of the ground floor of the main building at Derwent. Nella had carte blanche from Clive to spend what she liked on a dress for it, and believed, in fact, that his blank cheque was her birthday present from him. And Mary was thinking with quiet pleasure of the turquoise chiffon, the little brilliant-studded tiara and its matching slippers which, this time, were not going to be out of place. Once, just once, she promised herself, she would be—not beautiful, not glamorous, she could never be either—but as groomed and poised as the knowledge she was looking her best could make her. If Clive knew how much she was letting it matter, no doubt he would see it as another futile bid for notice, another 'dip into the romantic hat' which she had promised him she had the good sense not to make.

But he was not going to know. This time she would not be asking any favours of him, and her urge to turn butterfly for a single night was nothing but her pride's need to take leave of him in its own fashion. For in a matter of a week or two, if not a few days, the work that kept her at his house would be finished. In fact, she had already compiled one complete draft of Alan Cabord's book, and Clive, who had to be in London for the two or three days immediately before Nella's dance, was taking it up with him. The publishers had seen it in rough, chapter by chapter as she had finished each, and now it was a matter of their final approval of the whole. This might take as little as a week; then she could set about its final fair copies, and her remaining time at, Kingstree depended on how long that took. On the morning Clive left for London Nella was going to Southampton with Barney, and Mary, with time on her hands, decided to walk over to Queen's Beeches to see Mrs Ford. She took a picnic lunch with her, meaning to walk on afterwards deep into the Forest, wanting to savour its springing new life while she could. When she was in Birmingham it was going to seem very far away! At Queen's Beeches, however, she found Mrs Ford in thrall to one of the migraine headaches which were the sole ailments that stoic lady permitted herself. Earlier she had told Mary she had read that only strong-charactered people suffered from migraine, and Mary thought she probably found great consolation in the fact when she was! in the grip of an attack. But when one occurred no onlooker could be in doubt of its severity, and this morning, at sight of her lowered lids and drawn brows, Mary protested that she ought to be in bed. 'Yes, yes, I'm going, dear. I wake with the wretched things, you know, and always hope I may throw them off if I get up. I rarely can, though—ought to have learnt my lesson by now, I suppose. But I had to pretend I was all right this morning because Barney wouldn't have

liked leaving me to take Nella to Southampton. And once I have got up, even if I do go back to bed I can't hope to get to sleep again unless I have a couple of my tablets. Not that I'd have you think, dear,' Mrs Ford added, 'that I'm one of these people who run to drugs to cure them of this, that and the other. I've never held with it and never shall. And though these things, my doctor tells me, are only a shade stronger than aspirin and couldn't harm me if I took half a dozen, two at a time is all I ever allow myself. I should feel I was just giving in if I took more.' 'All the same,' urged Mary, 'won't you take two now and let me see you into bed?' 'Gladly, dear, now you're here. Because I expect you won't mind listening for the telephone—people ringing up to book riding lessons, you see, and Barney can't afford to miss anything, more than ever now. But my tablets— that's a difficulty. I always keep some by me, but Leonie borrowed them the other day and though I've looked in her room for the®, I can't find them. She went out after breakfast without, as usual, saying where, so although I will go to bed, I'm afraid I shan't sleep until she gets back and I can ask her where they are.' 'Meanwhile, would you take something else instead— aspirin, for instance?' asked Mary. Mrs Ford shook a heavy bead. 'Aspirin isn't the same, dear, though perhaps I will.' But when Mary took her a cup of tea and proffered two aspirin tablets after she was in bed, she rejected the latter, saying she had just thought of where her own tablets might be. 'I only glanced at Leonie's dressing-table—such a mess, I wonder she ever finds anything on it herself—and in the main drawer of the bedtable. But there's a second little drawer to that and my tablets may be

in it. So would you just see for me, dear? You know her room, don't you? The door is ajar, I think.' True enough the door stood open to the chaos created by Leonie's toilet, which Mary had glimpsed before, mar- veiling that it jcould produce a groomed result at all. A rumpled hand-towel had been thrown on to the unmade Bed; there, was a powder trail across the carpet; open drawers slumped forward; nylons, none of than matching, and discarded shoes seemed to be everywhere. Distastefully Mary picked her way across the room, trying not to think of Clive in association with its owner; located the small drawer in the bed-table, found the phial of tablets in it, and was almost at the door again when she checked, aware that in passing the dressing-table her eye had been fleetingly arrested by something there. Puzzled, she looked back, saw the open jewel-case, the hinged divisions of its top tray a-tilt to reveal a lower one, and suddenly knew with the force of a rocket bursting in her brain what it was she had seen, and feared there was but one sinister, incriminating meaning to its being where it was. An earring without its fellow ... A curved leaf in diamante, its vein a line of tiny pearls ... One of a pair, the other of which was in the hands of the police ... And belonging to Leonie who, when questioned, had denied its possession or ever having seen it before. Her limbs leaden, though drawn as if by a magnet, Mary went over and took the thing into her palm. Could there be an innocent explanation of it? But if there were—if, for instance, coincidence had stretched to allow Leonie to own a pair of earrings identical with the one found in Rickman Curtis's car, wouldn't she have told the police so and shown them that her pair was intact? Or even supposing it was

not; supposing she had been in the car at some earlier date and had lost the earring about that time, wouldn't she have admitted that too? Against that, of course, was the fact that, knowing the earring was the one slender clue to the unknown woman in the car, she had still kept the odd one by her when guilt should have prompted her to throw it away. But Mary knew only too well that, if her suspicions had grounds, it would not be the first nor the last time that guilt had been careless about destroying the evidence, believing itself too clever to be found out. And as she stared down at the trinket, suddenly she remembered something else ... That first drive with Leonie from Ringwood station to Kingstree when, not realising the imprudence of it, she had wanted to coax the forest mare and foal over to the car! She had sensed then, without knowing why it was so, that Leonie's rebuke had been too sharp, far too vicious of phrase, but now she thought she did realise why. For if the car crash had indeed been caused by straying ponies and Leonie had been there, then her reaction to the sight of the mare and foal was understandable. Her bitter reproof of Mary had been a cover for her violent rejection of a memory they had evoked, and in this moment of intuition Mary knew, as surely as if she had had the truth from Leonie, that she held the proof of guilt in her hand. Leonie had been there. The racing thoughts had taken but a second or two, but thinking them had so effaced her surroundings that Mary was quite unaware of Leonie, standing at the open door and watching her, until the other girl spoke. 'You wouldn't, I hope, think it inquisitive of me to ask what you're doing in my room?' she drawled. Mary, taken off guard, started and flushed. 'Mrs Ford asked me to come and look for her migraine tablets which you'd borrowed -' But

there she broke off, the shy diffidence that was second nature to her suddenly turned to anger at the sight of Leonie, cool and selfpossessed as ever in spite of what she must have on her conscience. There was nothing diffident in Mary's tone as she went on: 'I found the tablets all right. But then, without having to look or to spy'—her glance at the littered dressing-table was expressive—'I happened to see—this, Miss Crispin, and I think you'll agree we've both seen its pair before?' As she spoke she opened her palm, and Leonie, who had strolled forward, a thin assured smile playing about her lips, looked down at the earring which lay there. From it she looked up at Mary, the smile and the brash confidence wiped in an instant from her face. 'How—how dare you?' she exclaimed. 'Give that thing to me!' Instead Mary dropped it back into the jewel-case. 'There was no question of daring. You'd left it exposed for any casual visitor to your room to see.' 'And if I had, what right have you to—to pillory me about it?' 'Just the right of any friend of Nella Derwent's,' Mary , told her coldly. 'Or, if you like, the right of anyone who happens to know you've concealed and lied about it up till now!' She waited for a moment, but when Leonie said nothing she went quietly out of the room and back to Mrs Ford. She returned a few minutes later to find Leonie sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the glowing tip of a cigarette. As if their exchange had had no interruption Leonie fenced, 'And where do you think you're going to stand if I deny the lot?'

'But I don't think you're going to attempt to deny it to me! For instance, though I daresay you could claim you had driven with Mr Curtis quite innocently at some time or other and had missed the other earring after that, or even hadn't realised you had lost it, why didn't you tell the police so when you had the chance? The fact of one of them being in the car and one here doesn't matter. But the fact that you denied all knowledge of them does, don't you see?' 'And do you imagine that if I had anything to hide, I'd ever have kept the thing until now?' At that Mary felt she could almost have pitied Leonie's futile hedging if she hadn't hated her cruelty to Nella too much. She said, 'I think you may have been confident you wouldn't be asked about it again. And I've an idea you thought you were safe because you knew no one had ever seen you wearing the pair of them. At a guess, you hadn't owned them before the night that Mr Curtis—died.' That was such a daring shot at random that Mary could scarcely credit she had put it into words until she saw how Leonie reacted to it. For if a face could be said to crumple or a body to shrink, Leonie's did as, with yet another attempt at bravado, she said: 'So if you know all about it, what do you want me to confess?' 'Just what really happened on the night we're talking about. For you were the passenger who was never traced, weren't you?' prompted Mary, surer than ever now, though she hardly hoped to get a straight answer to her question. There she was wrong. Leonie, hunched over her cigarette, did not reply at once. But when she did 'Yes, heaven help me, I was there. Ricky had been drinking, and he always drove as if he owned the road when he had. When we were

out together, we never went to any of the forest hotels or anywhere where we might be recognised. But he always had a flask in the car. We drew up for a while on the grass verge not too far from here in order to say goodnight to each other, and before we went on again he put on the inside light for a minute or two to let me do up my face. While it was on a car did go past. It had G.B. plates, I remember. But the driver has never come forward, so he couldn't have remembered noticing us. Anyway— when we did go on Ricky began to drive as if he were possessed. I begged him to stop and let me take over, and then- -' 'Then you crashed?' 'No, but I saw one of those wretched forest pony mares with two foals on the road ahead. They showed up in the headlights as if they'd been painted on a stage backdrop. But Ricky never saw them until he was among them. They scattered; he didn't touch them, but in trying not to he lost all control of the car. And the next thing I knew was seeing him slumped forward as if the steering rod had driven into his chest -' Mary drew a long, tremulous breath. 'Was he able to speak to you? Or did you believe he was dead then?' 'He couldn't speak and he'd stopped breathing before I left him. I—I swear he had! He was dead, I tell you! So what good -?' 'All right. So you left him—dead, you believed, though he may not have been. Either way'—Mary had not known she could be so stern, so hard—'you knew your first duty to him was to get help and a doctor for him. But you did neither because it was more important to you that you should get away. Why?' 'Oh, use the wits God gave you, girl!' Leonie retorted, her tone savage. 'Do I have to put it in words of one syllable? Rick Curtis and

I were having an affair. But he'd got himself hooked up to Nella and I was expecting Clive to propose any day. So what was I doing, meeting Ricky in secret, when we were both supposed to be somewhere else, . not together at all? For pity's sake, what did you expect me to do? Ricky was dead. I couldn't help him by staying, and I should be ruined with Clive if I did.' Mary nodded slowly. 'You would be ruined. I see. You left behind you a dying or a dead man to be discovered by strangers; your deception of Mr Derwent, Mr Curtis's parents, Nella's heartbreak— none of that mattered, so long , as you got away without a breath of suspicion touching you? But could you explain—if you and Mr Curtis were in love with each other, why were you on the point of getting engaged to Mr Derwent?' 'In love! Be your age, do. We weren't in love in the way you mean. I was bored, Waiting for Clive to propose in so many words, and I don't think Ricky had a clue about loving anybody.? 'He must have loved Nella!' 'Huh, that's what you think! No, I'm afraid Ricky had expensive tastes and he was hoping Clive would make a nice settlement on Nella. At the time I suppose I kidded mySelf I meant something to him. Somehow women—have to. But I've wondered since whether he might even have been planning a spot of quiet blackmail after I was married to Clive.' 'And so you gambled on not having been seen and on leaving no trace, and ran for your miserable life?' 'You don't mince matters, do you?' Leonie sneered. 'But all right—I'd come off without a scratch and it wasn't far from here across the forest. Barney and Aunt Ford were out for the evening, and though I knew I had lost the one earring—Ricky had made me a present of

them that night— it could have been anywhere and I wasn't too worried. Of course there was the old fellow who came forward at the inquest, but the police didn't take much notice of him.' 'They've had second thoughts since,' Mary reminded her. 'Since they've held the earring and the anonymous letters.' 'The- -? Oh, them! But don't tell me, Miss Sherlock Holmes Smith, that among your other snooping qualities you haven't guessed who wrote them?' 'I think I know now,' said Mary. The note of sly triumph in Leonie's voice had told her. Unbelievably it was Leonie herself who had written the letters to Nella, ignoring the risk she ran in-doing it simply because it had fed her hunger for intrigue and her sense of power. Not needing to ask, Mary stated, 'So it was you. But why? You claimed to me that you were impatient for Nella to forget the whole thing, because until she was happier Mr Denrent was reluctant to announce your own engagement.' Leonie shrugged. 'Don't ask me why. It just amused me. Seeing Nella squirm. Planning them and writing them and posting them was fun too while it lasted. And I father enjoyed thinking of the brouhaha there'd be if she whined about them to Give.' 'And when she didn't, you rather enjoyed the thought that as she wasn't at home to receive it, the last postcard you wrote her was pretty likely to fall into Mr Derwent's hands?' 'Why do you think I made it a postcard, not a letter? Everyone reads postcards, even though they pretend they don't, and it seemed time the joke was pepped up a bit, I thought.' Forcing herself to hide her recoil, Mary said, 'But didn't you for see Mr Derwent would take it and the other letters to the police?'

'That was my idea of pep. I knew they couldn't be pinned on me. the proof is that the police have had them for weeks now, and a fat lot has happened since, hasn't it?' 'This has happened,' Mary pointed out. 'How right you are. And now'—Leonie discarded her cigarette and leaned for support on her hands outspread on the quilt—'now I've handed you the story on a plate, you can save the police their trouble, I suppose you think? I daresay you can hardly wait to tell all you know to them and to Nella and Clive—particularly to Clive?' Mary shook her head. Only then aware of her decision she said slowly, Tin not going to the police and no one is going to hear your story from me.' Leonie sat bolt upright, self-concern sharpening every line of her face. 'You—aren't using it against me? You aren't giving me away? Clive doesn't have to know? 'I didn't say that. I'm afraid he has to know.' 'But I don't understand! I thought you said -' 'I only said he wouldn't hear it from me. But you are going to tell him. If you love him, you know you can't do less,' said Mary.

CHAPTER NINE LEONIE stared, then laughed, not pleasantly. 'For a minute you had me fooled,' she said. 'I actually thought you were telling me you would hold your tongue, and I'd begun to wonder the sort of price you might ask. But instead you're only turning the handle of the knife to me and allowing me to cut my own throat, while you stand by, holding the threat of an "—Or else" over my head!' Mary said wearily, 'I'm not threatening you. If I meant to, I could have kept the earring and produced it to prove the story and how you came to tell it to me. But I'm leaving the earring with you. Isn't that enough to show you I shall keep my word?' Chin on hand, Leonie brooded on the point. Then: 'It sounds like splitting hairs to me. You aren't telling, but I must! And come to that, where's the difference between your going to the police with what you know and my creeping to confess to Clive? Either way the thing comes out and the scandal will finish me!' 'I don't think it follows that it need come out. Publicly, that is. When you left Mr Curtis you did a horrible thing, but if you believed he was dead I'm not sure you did anything criminal. Technically you're only a witness who failed to come forward, and when you do, I imagine the police records of the accident can be closed. The letters—I think only Nella—or Mr Derwent on her behalf until she's eighteen—could take action against you over them, and I'd say it's possible that, for the sake of your future relations with her, he might think it wiser not to tell her the truth about them.' 'What a hope! Clive is on the warpath to get the thing cleared up!' 'Yes, well—you must risk that he might see it as his duty to tell her and the police. But somehow I think he wouldn't make a public

sacrifice of you, Miss Crispin, even to satisfy Nella's right to revenge, however real that may be.' 'I see. So if I'm not to be hauled like a witch to the ducking-stool on either count, can you tell me why I'm supposed to take the story to Clive at all? Or is it that you have got a price and this is it? So long as I agree to tell him what I've told you, you'll be satisfied—is that it?' 'Yes.' 'H'm, straight from the shoulder! But of course one sees why. Because you're in love with Clive yourself! When you came here you were already starry-eyed about him and it's grown on you since. You had the usual corny idea that you might marry your boss, only to find you hadn't a hope while I was about. But now—now I've shown feet of clay, haven't I? And Supposing Clive went all "holier than thou" and broke with me, you're promising yourself you might manage to catch him on the rebound—yes?' 'No,' said Mary firmly. 'If you didn't exist Mr Derwent would still never give me a second thought, except as a reasonably good secretary -' 'So you had no ulterior motives when you flung yourself into his arms after that idiotic adventure of getting shut in Hector's loosebox? Not that Clive, being a man, would be entirely averse to the role of comforter. Nor that he mightn't fall temporarily for the brand of heroworship you haven't managed to hide! But if you're not deluding yourself you might be able to snaffle him for keeps, why the insistence on throwing me to the wolves, may I ask?' 'For two reasons, I think. The first—even if Mr Derwent decides to keep your secret, knowing it himself will make him much more tolerant of Nella's hostility to you.'

'And your second reason?' 'That's to do with another debt. I say you dare not marry Mr Derwent, owing him the truth about your affair with Nella's fiance when you knew he was on the point of asking you to marry him.' ' "Dare not" is a pretty strong phrase!' It fits the context, all the same. But if you'd rather, I'll say you won't dare for your own sake, because you can't risk the truth coming out in some other way after you've married him.' 'And supposing I choose to take the risk?' 'If you've a glimmer of real love for him or any hope of a future with him, I think you won't choose,' said Mary, the last word hers, but the taste of it bitter in her mouth!

Without heart for her picnic in the Forest, Mary went back to Kingstree, thankful she had not yet to face Nella, knowing what she knew, and that Clive himself would not be home for a couple more days. Though she was not naive idealist enough to think she had persuaded Leonie to confess to Clive for his or for Nella's sake, she judged Leonie to be sufficiently shrewd to realise the consequences of risking exposure through the police inquiries. When she would choose to tell Clive, Mary could not guess. But she thought it likely that if their engagement announcement was indeed planned for Nella's birthday--perhaps at the party itself—Leonie would delay until after that. Once she is officially engaged to him she may hope she can appeal to his chivalry to save her from the scandal, Mary

thought, not knowing that the timing of the story had never lain within her choice and did not rest with Leonie now ... Clive had not returned from London before both Mary and Nella had gone to bed on the eve of Nella's birthday. Together they had spent most of the day watching the caterers transform the austere dignity of Derwent's reception hall into a ballroom for a night. When they arrived home Nella was as tired as she was excited, and Mary was able to persuade her not to wait up for Clive. She agreed to have dinner on a tray in bed if Mary would eat in her room with, her, and afterwards they talked until Nella, admitting sleepiness, said she was ready to settle down. Leaving her, Mary went downstairs to keep a rendezvous with Mrs Hancock to plan the arranging of her presents at the breakfast table next morning. Among them were several which had come by post and had been adroitly kept back by William; there was a set of flower-bowls and vases from the garden staff; the Hancocks' choice was a deep-piled bedroom rug. Mary, after much indecision, had decided upon a pair of antique brass candlesticks; Mrs Ford called a spade a spade with a comprehensive manual on Household Management ... There was nothing from Leonie, though no doubt for appearances' sake she would give Nella something. Barney, who would be joining the breakfast party, had secretly sent ahead his present of saddle, bridle and silver-topped riding crop which, everyone agreed, ought to offer Nella her first clue as to why Clive had ordered the new horse to be brought from the stable to the open window. Later, Mary, in bed but sleepless from excitement and with the creeping apprehension which had not left her since her exchange with Leonie, knew that she was not going to be able to sleep unless she could read herself towards drowsiness.

Switching on her light, she looked round for her book —a collection of essays by an Irish writer on all manner of everyday subjects—only to remember that she had left it in Clive's study on the desk. But as she could fetch it and return inside three minutes she decided to slip into dressing- gown and slippers and go down. In the study she switched on only the angle-lamp and stood in its light, finding her place in the book in order to see how much she had left to read. Momentarily absorbed, she did not hear the door open behind her and did not realise Clive had come in until his shadow leapt up the opposite wall. 'Oh -' She started and turned, her first thought to search his face for any hint that he had seen or heard from Leonie, her second for her deshabillee and rumpled hair. As his finger on the main switch flooded the room with light she said, 'I'm sorry. I'd left my book here, so I came down for it. I didn't know you were back, Mr Derwent.' 'Only just. I left William to put the car away later, so if you've just come down you wouldn't have heard it running into the garage.' As he came to put his brief-case on the desk his glance flicked from her full-skirted gown to her be-slippered bare feet. 'You'd already gone to bed, I take it?' 'Yes. Nella was willing to go early, so I went myself after Mrs Hancock and I had got all her presents ready for tomorrow.' 'Good. And I suppose everything is going smoothly over at the works? I rang Leonie from town this morning^ anyway, and she said that as far as she knew, it was.' 'You—you haven't seen Miss Crispin since you got back?' Mary could not resist asking.

He looked his surprise at the question. 'Of course not. I told you— I've only just lighted in. Why?' 'Nothing. Just that Nella and I were at Derwent most of the day, but she didn't come over.' 'No, she said on the phone she was going in to Southampton to get her hair done.' His matter-of-fact tone told Mary all she wanted to know and as he turned to support himself against the edge of the desk, arms folded and feet outstretched, he changed the subject. 'Well, operation Cabord almost completed,' he said. 'Rossiter and Farrar hope to give the last chapters their O.K. by this time next week, and then it's pretty plain sailing, isn't it?' 'Oh yes. If I work at it, I should think I could get the fair copy done in, say, another week or ten days.' He smiled. 'You don't need to break your neck, though with R. and F. anxious to time publication to tie in with an autumn television series on the same subject, they won't mind how soon it's ready to go to press. And by the way, Cabord left to me the matter of the disposal of its royalties. So of course I'm giving them to Wild Life. I know he would approve, and I've an idea that would make you happy?' 'But of course—more than happy! I hope it will make a lot of money, and when I see it in a bookshop I know I'm going to feel proud about having had a little to do with it.' 'It wouldn't have been as good a job without you.' He paused, studied his feet as he flexed them in a heel-and- toe action, then looked up and held Mary's glance. 'Tell me—can I hope you're sorry that the end is in sight? For any other reason, I mean, than that you've enjoyed working on the book, which I know you have?'

Sorry! Longing to appeal to him not to test her defences too far, she said, 'Surely you know I shall be sorry—for other reasons.' 'Such as?' 'Well—I've loved being here. You've made me very happy and at home, and I've grown awfully fond of Nella. I can't thank you enough, and I would like you to know how grateful I was to come here instead of going straight to Birmingham as soon as Clare had gone.' 'Is Birmingham still a "must"?' Tin afraid so, as soon as I've finished working on the book. I've heard again from Clare, saying she won't be coming back and that she's fairly sure of getting of a permit to stay in America.' 'I'm sorry. But you know, your leaving as soon as you've finished the book is a fetish of your own making. If you remember, I told you I didn't mean your time here should be rigidly tied to it.' 'It has to be tied to it. I—mustn't stay.' 'Not even until after Nella's wedding? Won't you stay for that?' Tempted as she was, she dared not accept the fruitless marking of time he offered her. More stiffly than she intended, she said, 'I'd really rather not. Nella has asked me to come down for her wedding, and I'd like to. But staying— that would only be postponing Birmingham, wouldn't it?' At that he levered himself upright and came to stand at her end of the desk, close enough for her to see her reflection in his pupils. Indulgent of her stubbornness, he said, 'How that character of yours insists on taking its fate on the chin! And what if you let Birmingham ride for a month or two? It'll still be there!'

She achieved a thin smile. 'But that's just it—it will still be there, lying in wait! And, as a fresh start, no easier to face then than now. Harder, in fact -' 'You let it wait when you came here,' he reminded her. 'Why shouldn't it again?' 'That was different. Coming here was—just an alternative job for me.' At his half-frown she realised she could have been more tactful. He said, 'And there's not enough attraction to persuade you to stay, once the strict letter of the job is finished?' 'I didn't mean that! But don't you see that I mustn't make use of Kingstree, merely to put off the prospect of Birmingham?' 'Of course! Unthinkable that you should contemplate bilking the everyday safety that Birmingham promises!' he mocked, though not unkindly. And then: 'All right-—just my idea that, given a little longer grace, Kingstree might figure for you as something more than either a job or a pleasant enough ante-room to more earnest business. Even that it could afford you—an anchorage of its own. But forget it for now. Even the job isn't finished yet, and when it is I shall ask you again.' She stepped back, out of range of his tantalising nearness. 'It's more than kind of you, Mr Derwent. But I'd rather go.' 'I shall still ask you again,' he said. And only later, after she had left him, did she query his choice of the word 'anchorage' and wonder if he had forgotten how they had differed as to its meaning ...

The next morning Nella obeyed overnight instructions that the dining room was forbidden territory until she was called to breakfast. Clive went down to the stables to arrange for the new horse to be brought up; Barney arrived; Mrs Hancock joined William at the sideboard and Mary volunteered to fetch Nella from her room. On the threshold of the dining room, 'Shut your eyes,' Mary ordered, giving the signal for 'Happy Birthday To You' to strike up under Mrs Hancock's lead, and propelling Nella to her place before allowing her to open her eyes again. As was to be expected, Nella's glance went first to the bulky threepart gift Barney had not been able to wrap. Hesitantly she touched crop, bridle and smoothed the pale sew leather of the saddle; then read the label and looked up at Barney between laughter and happy bewilderment. 'Why, Barney, lamb -!' But as she held out her arms to him he eluded her with a grin. 'Now don't miss your cue, honey! You're not supposed to go all ecstatic, but to register polite thanks underlaid by chagrin, as for a white elephant. Something, say, on the lines of, "Thank you kindly, Barney dear—they're just what I wanted!" And then, sotto voce like, "What's the good of giving me gear, lout, if you don't give me a mount to match?"' 'Darling, as if I would -! ' She broke off and looked about her, aware of a conspiracy, slowly working it out. Her glance, in passing, took in the fact of the open window, and at the sight of Clive's groom and his charge outside, she breathed. 'Oh no! Not for me!' and looked an incredulous question, first at Mary and then at Clive. Clive nodded, 'For you, pet, with all my love—subject to your approval of him, of course!' Upon which she ran to him to throw

herself into his arms, incoherent with joy and perhaps, thought Mary, needing to shed her last doubts of his goodwill in their shelter. 'I—I didn't know! I thought -! Oh, Clive, really for me? He always was?' 'Why not? I didn't win him in a raffle and decide to dump him on to you. And so far as I know, you're the only person in the house who is rating a birthday present today.' 'But you planned him—for me, when you asked Barney to buy him in? And you wanted me to look at him, so that you could see whether I liked him, and I wouldn't?' 'Just as well, really. I didn't press you, remember.' He held her back from him and shook her in gentle affection. 'I didn't particularly want you guessing why I'd commissioned Barney to buy me a second mount!' 'But I thought I had g -' She broke off, biting her lip. 'You mean, Barney knew? And Mary? Everyone?' 'Everyone—and you the only sucker, my love! And by- the way, if you insist on giving him the once-over now, you're getting five minutes flat and no more for the operation, see? You may be of age, but the rest of us could do with our breakfast!' The last words were addressed to Nella's back as she clambered over the low sill on her way to fondle the horse and to discuss his points with the groom. But of course that was not enough. Barney had to join her; then Clive and Mary too. The five minutes of Clive's edict became ten, fifteen, before they all repaired back to the dining room, where the rest of the presents had to be examined and praised before William at last served breakfast and left them to eat it.

Over the meal they discussed the evening's party and mooted names for the new horse. Barney said his morning was entirely at Nella's service and Mary had just tactfully edged out of an invitation to go riding with them when William came back to say Clive was wanted on the telephone. The others rose too and parted company—Nella and Barney bound for the stable and Mary for her room. But Clive, who had taken the call in his study, beckoned to her as she was crossing the hall. He was still at the telephone, but he replaced the receiver as she joined him. 'That was the Kingwood police,' he told her. 'Inspector Charland— you know, the one who is handling Nella's affair —wanting an appointment without delay because he says he has a line on some firm information at last.' Mary's heart took a plunge. She felt cold and hollow inside. 'Information?' she echoed. 'About the anonymous letters or -?' 'Not about the letters. They're still drawing a blank there. But according to Charland they have come by some totally unexpected help with the other end of the case; with, in fact, the one chance in a hundred that didn't seem possible, even on the evidence of the earring. It seems that another witness has come forward, claiming he saw Rickman Curtis in his caf that night only very shortly before, according to the police calculation, the crash occurred, and that he certainly had a woman passenger with him then.' Mary moistened her lips. 'But who—is this witness? And why hasn't he gone to the police earlier?' 'Charland says he's a man who had a nodding acquaintance with Curtis, through membership of the same golf club. But this fellow Rollatt went abroad on a prolonged business trip the next day and heard his only news of the case as late as yesterday when someone

referred to it "casually in the bar of the club. Apparently the thing clicked in Rollatt's mind; he slept on it and then contacted the police early this morning. Charland suggested he should bring him over to see me, but I said No—I'd go over there. It may or may not be a lead, and if it isn't, I'd rather Nella heard nothing about it. So don't say anything to her, will you?' 'Of course not. I—I suppose Mr Rollatt didn't recognise the woman too?' Clive frowned. 'I asked Charland, naturally. But he - wasn't giving on that score, for some reason. Wary of the telephone, I suppose. Anyway, though it may be too much to hope Rollatt knew her as well as Curtis, it'll help if he has been able to sketch in a description of her, which is mote than the police have had to work on yet.' He gestured ruefully on his way to the door. 'Of all days for the thing to come to the boil, eh? However, I'll ring you during the morning if I decide Nella is to be told. Or no—I'll try to make it for lunch and tell her myself.' But he did not return for lunch, and though he rang William to say he would not be home, he did not ask for Mary. Nella also telephoned to say she was lunching at Queen's Beeches and that Mrs Ford would like Mary to go over too—an invitation Mary declined, knowing she could not possibly face Leonie in the intimacy of a family meal, as if that punishing scene between them had never happened and while a different threat, unforeseen by either of them, hung over Leonie's head. The hours wore on; there was no sign from Clive, and it was Nella, returning in the late afternoon, who brought news in which she saw nothing significant but which Mary found ominous.

'You might have stirred your stumps and come over for lunch,' Nella grumbled. 'Couldn't William have taken the telephone call you said you were expecting?' 'It didn't come anyway,' Mary evaded. 'What a frost! So you could have come, and we weren't inflicted with Leonie either. Just Mamma Ford and Barney and me—- Seems Clive rang Leonie during the morning and called for her half an hour later. As you know, she never has the decency to utter as to where she is going or when she'll be back, and she hadn't shown up again by the time I left. Clive must have had a sudden urge to take her out to lunch. On a pretty prolonged session too, considering he hasn't shown up at the office all day.' 'He ... hasn't?' 'No. Just before I left Queen's Beeches I rang up to check that everything was ready for tonight, and Miss Truscott said she hadn't seen him, though he had rang to say she wasn't to expect him. I'll bet you anything, Leonie— Or no, maybe I won't. Not so hot on intuition as I thought I was, am I? Look how I boobed over Scabbard!' 'Scabbard?' Mary's absent tone reflected her preoccupation. 'Oh—is that what you've decided to call your horse?' 'M'm—like it? It was my idea that his coat is exactly the colour and texture of a beautifully polished scabbard, and when I suggested it to Barney, he thought it was bang on too as a kind of symbol for my sheathing the sword with Clive over Leonie. And like it or not, it looks as though I shall have to cry Pax sooner or later.' 'You'll have to do it generously if you do it at alt' warned Mary, and wished she did not know just how harshly Nella's generosity towards her enemy might soon be put to the test.

'Yes, well—as Barney says, it can't be so bad, once we're married. I shall be at Queen's Beeches and though Leonie will presumably be queening it here, it won't be the same as having to stomach her whenever Clive chooses to wish her on to me. I can't like her and never shall. But somehow I don't think any longer of Clive as being only on her side, allied against me. And until now I haven't felt like that since Ricky died and it seemed to me that Clive didn't care, any more than anyone else did.' At that 'Ricky' Mary's nerves jumped. But Nella, untouched by shadow, was merely looking at her watch and frowning. 'Where on earth do you suppose Clive is?' she queried. 'It's nearly time we changed, and I don't think he'd push dinner late tonight. I'm going to ring Queen's Beeches and see if he's shown up there.' When she came back she was biting the ball of her thumb in a childish way she had when perplexed. 'I got Barney,' she said. 'He sounded—odd. As if he were holding out on me over something. When I asked if Clive was there and if he was, for pity's sake to prise him away from Leonie and send him home to change and have dinner, Barney said he had been, but wasn't now, and that he was coming over.' 'That is, that Mr Derwent is on his way home?' 'No. Barney is coming over. I said, "Look, I know it's laid on that you're coming later to drive Mary and me to the dance. But right now it's Clive I want. So if you know where he is—give, and when he went out again, did Leonie go with him, or hadn't she cotne in with him the first time, or what?' 'And what did Barney say?' 'Do you know, nothing made sense?' Nella scowled. 'Just that he was coming now—to see me, because Clive had asked him to! And when

I said again, What and Why? he said, "Expect me inside ten minutes", and rang off. I say, Mary, you don't think Leonie has concocted some scheme of her own to spoil my party? Say, some hatched-up emergency that could even keep Clive away from it to dance attendance on her?' To that Mary, equally puzzled by Barney's cryptic message, could only counsel waiting to hear what he had to tell them when he came. When he did—in less time than he had allowed himself—he held out his arms wordlessly to Nella and when she ran to him he spoke to Mary over her shoulder. 'Clive says you know something about all this,' he said. 'A—little. I knew the police wanted to see him this morning -' Nella spun round. 'You didn't tell me! The police? About- -?' 'Yes, honey. The truth about Ricky.' It was Barney who answered and, gentle with her, led her to a settee and sat beside her, both her hands in his. Bewilderedly she appealed, 'I don't understand! Clive hasn't said anything about hearing from the police! When did he? And if something has really come out about Ricky, why didn't he tell me the minute he knew, instead of—of jaunting off somewhere into the blue with Leonie?' 'He isn't jaunting with Leonie. And when the police rang this morning—the call William fetched him to, remember? —all they told him was that they had some new evidence they wanted him to hear. So he told Mary, not you, because in case it led nowhere, he didn't want to spoil today for you.' 'But it has led somewhere? You said the truth -'

'Yes. Hold everything, my darling—this is pretty raw. It led to— Leonie.' 'To -? What do you mean? Not Ricky and Leonie? Oh no! Not while he -! While we -!' Nella checked, as if that double betrayal were a tide against which she must struggle physically, needing all her strength. The others were silent, not knowing how to help her. But then she had breasted it, was through it 'All right—so it was Leonie,' she said. 'Perhaps I ought to have guessed. Because she's always hated me, hasn't she? I thought it was just because I stood between her and Clive. But if she wanted Ricky too-—! You're saying, aren't you, that she was out with him that night? She was— there before he died?' Barney said again, 'Yes. But she swears he was beyond any help when she did leave him. If you can believe her; and the police are inclined to, it's something, if not much.' 'Just the difference,' Nella commented bitterly, 'between leaving a sinking ship and one that's already gone down. But how did it happen? And why has it come out now?' Barney told her, outlining the events that had caught up on Leonie through the rare chance that the one man who had recognised Rickman Curtis at the wheel of his car had also been able to name his passenger. Discarding their usual caution, once during their affair Ricky had taken Leonie for a drink at his golf club and Mr Rollatt had been introduced to her there. And as his own car had passed the lighted one drawn up on the grass verge, he had known the woman who was using her compact was Leonie: Fetched to Ringwood police station by Clive, she had been confronted by the evidence; she had sworn an affidavit as the only witness of the crash, and that, as Mary

had surmised might be so, was all that the police required of her for the closing of their records of the case. Nella listened in silence. Then: 'How long had it been going on?' 'I don't know, though I suppose she told Clive. Anyway, too long.' 'And she knew that the anonymous letter-writer was on the wrong track, accusing Sally Benson and that other girl.' 'More than that, I'm afraid. She wrote the letters. Don't ask me why. Clive thinks she doesn't know herself, except that she got a tremendous kick out of picturing you worried about them and following them up. Also out of believing herself too clever to be found out.' Nella said slowly, 'I might almost have guessed that too. I mean, I'd rather know it was Leonie than believe anyone else wanted to hurt me as much. But the letters—they're part of the police case, aren't they? They'll accuse her of those?' 'Only, I gather, if you wish to prosecute. From today on, you're your own mistress, and you could.' 'As if I'd stoop to it!' scorned Nella. 'Or dream of it, for Clive's sake!' Suddenly she shivered and turned her face into Barney's shoulder. Her voice came muffled and forlorn ,as she said, 'That—that's the awful part. Having to face her again and for always. Seeing her move in here as if none of it had happened, and knowing that, if he's going to marry her, Clive will forgive her and I must pretend to, even though I never shall!' Barney nuzzled her bent head with his cheek. 'Take it easy, honey. That's a trouble you don't need to face. Cousin Leonie is leaving us!' Nella's head shot up. 'Leaving?

He nodded. 'Past tense already, so far as home is concerned. After you'd left this afternoon Clive brought her back at her request, but only to pack a case while Clive told Mother and me the whole wretched story. Before she went she made a whale of a scene. She was beside herself with rage and shame—not over what she'd done, but over being, as she called it, "dragged through the police mud" as she had been. She lost so much control that in the end Mother didn't want to allow her to go.' 'But she went, and Clive went with her?' 'Only to drive her to Southampton to catch the next London train. She's got some South African friends up there and she plans to stay with them until she goes out again herself.' 'But how can she, if Clive -?' '"If Clive"—nothing! They aren't engaged, even unofficially, and never were. He could have told you that, if you had ever asked him or allowed me to. So regard where bone-headed pride has led you, will you?' Barney teased. 'Ah, but even though I did mean to make him tell me, I wondered sometimes whether Leonie was quite as sure of him as she claimed, even when she had introduced herself to Mary as his fiancee. I didn't want to believe Clive was holding out on me for some strange reason of his own. But I admit I did dig in my heels when she went out of her way to flaunt her ownership of him in my face!' 'Not only in yours. She had told Mother too that it would be announced about now. So naturally Mother asked Clive if they were breaking it off, only to hear Leonie had been drawing on her precious imagination about the whole thing!' 'I don't understand, though, how she dared—or why.'

'I daresay she subscribed to the theory that if a lie is necessary, you should make it a whopper and back it up well. She craved the status that an engagement to Clive would give her, and she banked on being able to charm him into one before she was found out. Come to that, she got away with it more or less. At least she half convinced a lot of people—you, me, Mother, Mary, just to quote the ones most concerned, even if she badly overrated Clive's interest in her.' Nella said, 'She doesn't know Clive, if she imagined she could make a shotgun engagement of it when the time came. But if she hoped to, or if she loved him at all, I can't think why she risked running an affair with Ricky. Except, of course, for what that did to me.' Barney grimaced. 'You should have heard her telling us why, before she shook our despised dust from her feet! I can't remember it all, but the gist was that she was bored— bored to death with the lot of us. And even when she was about to get into the car, she couldn't resist a last kick. She smiled her sweetest poison at Clive and said, 'I suppose it's because you're so anxious to be rid of me that you're prepared to by-pass little sister's party to make sure I really go?' "What did Clive say to that?' 'I swear not a muscle moved in his face. He said, "Don't worry. I shall be late, but not too late to see Nella dancing till dawn; meanwhile, I haven't much choice but to see you off, have I? Get in, please." Curt! I tell you, it did my heart good to hear him!' commented Barney with relish. 'And did she get into the car then? Was that the last of her?' 'Not quite. Before she got in she took something—I couldn't see what, it was quite small—out of her bag and dropped it into his hand. And she said—or I thought she did—"By the way, as I've no further use for this, your plain jane might like a souvenir. And thank her, will

you, for a stout effort to save my face, even if I'm under no illusion that she did it for your sake, not for mine? Pity, really, that it didn't work out -' That was all. Then Clive drove away.' Nella's brows drew together. 'What on earth did she mean by that? What was it she gave him? And who is his "plain jane"?' 'Search me. I'm just your humble reporter I' 'Well, tell us again.' When Barney had obeyed, Nella appealed to Mary. 'Have you got a clue to all that? Do you understand a word of it?' 'I—think I do,' said Mary, and told them the only part of the ugly story they did not know.

CHAPTER TEN TEN o'clock had struck before Clive arrived at the dance. Meanwhile Barney had deputised for him as host, explaining his and Leonie's absence with the pardonable half- truth that, as she had been called on urgent business to London, he had driven her to Southampton to catch the first available express. At Barney's side Nella was a youthfully radiant figure. She had spent Clive's cheque on a model of palest green chiffon with a frothing skirt and a bodice encrusted in silver embroidery. Above it her bare shoulders were golden with the tan her olive skin never quite lost; her square-cut hair shone with the lustre of a bird's wing and the guarded, watchful look had gone from her eyes. Greeting her guests with Barney she was all grace, sweet dignity; surveying the promise of the enchanted evening of which she was the raison d'etre she was all little-girl glee that it should be happening to her. Her only worry—voiced to Mary—was that Clive might weaken, might feel his responsibility towards Leonie entailed his going up to London with her, even not returning that night at all. Meanwhile she had worked out to a nicety how soon he could be expected if he had indeed only gone as far as Southampton. And when he arrived she abandoned her current partner and ran to him, cutting a swathe through dancing couples and onlookers alike. 'Clive!' 'Well, pet -?' Briefly his hands cupped the piquant face uplifted to him and his eyes searched hers. They spoke for a moment; he held her back from him, swinging her hands as he appraised her dress; then, turning her about, he shooed her back to her partner and began to make his own greetings and diplomatic explanations of Leonie's absence from the scene. Mary, near him at the time, was soon merely

one of the crowd of dancers, and they did not come face to face until considerably later. Just before, he had his back to her, chatting in a group of men. She was standing alone, as throbbingly aware of him as if he were the only man in the room ... willing him to turn, to notice her, to ask her to dance before someone else claimed her. Ironically, she had never craved wall-- flowerhood as she did then. But when he came, it was not to invite her to dance. Dispensing with preliminaries, as if continuing an interrupted conversation, he said, 'I need to talk to you, you know, and I can't do it here. So I suggest .we move out temporarily. Will you come?' Without question she went with him, obeying the firm grip on her elbow which steered her across the wide •floor and into the: comparative silence of a corridor beyond. A dozen yards or so, a turn, and there was a lift. Up four floors; another corridor, this one dark and silent until Clive flicked switches and it echoed to the sound of their footsteps. At its far end he opened a door on to the discreet luxury of his private office, and showed Mary in, though he left her standing while he went to a wall cabinet to select drinks and wineglasses and touched a cord that drew back the curtains from the high window. Bringing both their glasses, 'Something of an eyrie, this room,' he commented. 'By day I get a view clear across to the Island and by night it's possible to pick out lighted shipping in the Solent. Come and look -He turned off some of the lights, making the outside darkness less intense by contrast, and joined her at the window. But she knew he had not brought her here to show her a virtually blacked- out view, and after a minute of two, as if he read her thoughts, he said:

'All right—opening gambit over. I suppose Barney told you as well as Nella what happened today, and you can guess what I want to ask you about? About the details you already knew? About all, in fact, that you were able to deduce from your finding of—this, but still had kept to yourself?' As he spoke he showed her the earring which she had scorned to hold in threat over Leonie and when she made no move to take or touch it, he dropped it back into his pocket. 'Well -' he said, and waited. She passed her tongue over her dry lips. 'I know it looks odd that I'd said nothing, done nothing about it. But I think you must realise why I felt you must hear the truth from Miss Crispin herself, not from me.' 'Even if it meant that I might never have heard it, but for a chance you couldn't have foreseen?' 'I think so. Don't you see that I thought you must be given the chance to forgive her and shield her from the scandal, if that were anyhow possible? And so I left the earring—the only evidence I had—with her as a kind of earnest to show I trusted her to tell you the truth without feeling she was being—blackmailed into it.' 'You actually thought I would protect her at Nella's expense?' 'I wasn't convinced that it would be at Nella's expense. As I saw it, nothing could give her fiance back to her; what was more, she didn't want him any longer, and that being so. what good would a witchhunt for Miss Crispin do her?' " 'And so you refused to set one afoot but still insisted that I must hear the truth from Leonie. Why?' Because I thought she owed it to you. She had cheated you as well as Nella and I had to try to convince her that she dare not and must not marry you with the horrible thing between you. Of course I didn't know if I could trust her to tell you. But I had to give her the chance.

You see, she had told me her engagement to you wasn't being announced out of consideration for Nella, and no one had heard differently from you -' 'Heaven help me, how could I scotch a lie I didn't know existed?' he exploded. 'A simple question to me, and the whole thing would -' Mary nodded. 'I know. But it was a question that didn't get asked, because Nella was too proud to ask it and was afraid of what she would hear if she did. Because, deep down, I think her instinct knew Miss Crispin for her enemy, and that gave her a completely head-insand attitude to the idea of having to accept her as your wife.' He made a little gesture of perplexity. 'To me, Leonie was merely a neighbour—a decorative one, granted—who had the right to our hospitality.' 'Oh, more than that, surely? She must have believed she risked losing more than your friendship if her affair with Mr Curtis came to light!' 'I'd never encouraged her to suppose we were more than friends, though superficially we had some things in common. But I'd have needed to have my head examined if I'd considered marrying her just because she rode well, danced with as much unconscious ease as other people walk and got by on the kind of brittle conversation that didn't reveal a thing that was going on in her mind.' 'She was very lovely too,' said Mary, not wishing Leonie dead but realising they both spoke of her as if she were. He agreed, 'Yes—if one goes for that diamond-hard kind of beauty. Theoretically, of course, all men do. But it's pedestal stuff that they're rightly wary of when it comes to marriage. If it comes with all the rest, fine. But personally I've got to be sure I can love my wife even

more in, say, gumboots or with her slip showing or when she's got a streaming cold in the head than I do when she's all groomed to kill!' Mary managed a faint smile. 'You'd make that the acid test of your ability to love someone?' 'No, it's 3 minor one. But Leonie didn't measure up either by any of the more sure-fire proofs that one has surrendered—when one has.' Not looking at him, Mary made play with the stem of her wineglass. 'That makes love sound like something to be fought off, kept at bay; as if you thought giving way to it were a kind of defeat!' 'Well, like it or not as women may, that's how men do tend to regard it until it catches up with them. And I'm no exception, believe me. Emphatically, it would have remained a side issue where I was concerned if—wham!— it hadn't suddenly popped up in the shape of a long-legged, great-eyed creature with a generous smile who claimed she had forsworn love too- -!' He broke off as she drew a long, audible breath, not knowing whom he meant if not herself, but not daring to believe he did. Because her heart seemed to have moved to the base of her throat, choking her, she could not trust herself to speak. Instead, with a poor effort to appear at ease, she lifted her glass, only to find it taken peremptorily from her. Setting his own aside with it, Clive said, 'That can wait. You're using it as a senorita flirts a fan, and I'm hanged if I'll have you going coy on me while I propose to you! Now! —I'm trying to tell you I love you, you beloved little—rock! What have you to say to that?' 'N-nothing. Because you aren't serious. You can't be!' 'Not serious? What do you think—that I'm practising on you?'

'No. But you can't put someone in the witness box one minute and— and make love to them the next!' 'Can't I? You'd be surprised.' His hand shot out and he pulled her to him, studying her face, feature by feature, before his mouth smothered hers in a kiss that, beginning in gentleness, became a searching, imperative demand. At first she resisted, as much against her own longing to yield as against the muscles, taut as steel wire, that held her. But slowly her tension broke, not in violence, but like a wave that must turn to small surf and eddy away to nothing. Then she came gloriously alive and presently she was returning rapturous kiss for kiss with a fierce eagerness that surprised her. And soon there was no thinking, only feeling and murmured foolish words, and even when he released her it was as if she were still wrapped invisibly in his arms. It was a raking beam of light across the window—the headlamps of a turning car in the courtyard below—that brought them back to comparative sanity. They flinched and drew a little apart; Clive went to close the curtains and came back, smiling in the way that always brought his face to life. 'Well -?' he invited, teasing her. Her palms went to her flaming cheeks, seeking to cool them. 'I didn't know! I didn't—know!' she babbled foolishly. 'About me—or about yourself?' 'About you, of course. There was Miss Crispin, and you'd never given a sign, even when you—kissed me.'

'Cancel the first time I kissed you. It was the merest Kiss- the-placeand-make-it-well effort. I hadn't fallen in love with you as early as that.' 'You were sorry for me!' 'I was not. You'd made it clear you were no object for pity. But I was intrigued by the oddest mixture of timidity and courage, and muddled and clear thinking that I'd ever encountered. And when, at moments during that evening, I found I was telling myself "They just don't come as dewy as this!" I did wonder if you expected to be kissed in a very different way before the night was out.' 'I didn't expect you to kiss me at all!' 'My darling, you made that only too obvious when I did. When you were shocked to your core by the kind of brotherly salute I'd given Nella, I knew for certain I'd got to find out just what made you tick. Exploratory you might be, but you were far too vulnerable to leave lying around, although until I was able to bring you down here to work on the Cabord papers, I hadn't an idea how I was going to keep you under my eye. Only that I had to.' 'I wasn't vulnerable. At least, not to just anyone.' 'So you were at pains to inform me. But though against me you put up a bastioned front that might have been the prototype for Gibraltar and, being a patient man, I was prepared to chip away at the granite inch by inch. I went in dread of the moments when you found the role of a monolith to be not as satisfying as all' that. You'd been in luck with one such moment—you'd encountered nothing more menacing than me. But I tell you I was in a cold sweat at the thought of your melting or crumbling—whatever, that is, Stonehenge may do when it decides to call it a day—in the arms of some man I might

never meet and would certainly loathe if I did. By that time, of course, I was well and hopelessly in love with you!' Mary's laugh was a little crow of pure happiness. 'You thought I was being exploratory when I play-acted those kisses with Lieutenant— oh dear, what was his name?' 'Moreton. Bless you for pretending you'd forgotten it.' 'I really had!' 'I'd like to believe you. However, yes—I did think it looked as if you thought you had to snatch at your opportunities. That made me see red, in view of the way I was prepared to bide my time and feel my way towards you. So I turned on the power-drill. But I made a botch of the job, because, though I was desperate with love for you when I kissed you, I'm afraid I wasn't liking you very much.' She nodded. 'I know. There's a difference, I wanted you to kiss me. But not that way. And when you did, as if you despised me, I wasn't liking you either.' 'Exactly. Deadlock for that night. And the next morning you administered the brush-off direct, and the affair of the anonymous letters blew up. And even when you plunged out of that loosebox, looking for a shoulder to lean on, I couldn't believe you'd really chosen mine for the purpose.' 'I'd chosen you in every way that mattered some time before then. But I was too proud to let you guess, because of Miss Crispin.' 'Which makes it pretty ironic, doesn't it, that it should have been Leonie who told me there was a chance for me with you? No credit to her; generosity isn't in her makeup. But just before her train left, keeping up the fiction that I'd ever been serious about her, she said,

"By the way, you'll find your owl-eyed Smith girl good for a rebound if you're looking for one. Because when I told her she hadn't kept her puny little secret from me, she didn't try to deny she had fallen for you, hook, line and sinker." That was all. She said it with a smirk I longed to wipe off her face. But she was on her way; it was the last I need ever see of her and I was ready to settle for hareing back to you at the rate of knots. So I hared and I'm here. And you're here, and what have we done about it for quite a time? Nothing!' They repaired the omission with some thoroughness. Afterwards, holding her lightly, his lips brushing her hair, Clive murmured, 'We've got to talk, I suppose. When are you going to marry me?' She leaned against him, her whole body sighing with the peace of it. 'Oh—do we have to discuss that yet?' 'No. Except that marriage happens to be what love's for.' A small silence. Then she had a question for him. 'Did you ever call me a "plain jane" to—anyone?' 'A plain jane?' He shook his head. 'Not that I remember; nor that it ever applied. Why?' She smiled. 'It doesn't matter,' she said, and knew that it didn't, if it ever had. A little while longer, and Clive stirred; gently displaced her as he looked at his watch. 'They're late,' he remarked unexpectedly. 'Late? Who are?' 'Nella and Barney.' 'Nella? But does she know?'

'How could she, when I didn't know myself an hour ago? But I admit to telling her that if she cared to keep a date with us up here about now, there just might be a surprise for her.' 'Oh, Clive! Do you—do you think she'll be glad?' 'Don't you know how glad, sweetheart -?' He broke off and turned her to face the door as they both heard the knock on its panels. It opened and Nella was there, peering round it like a conspirator to a dark plot, Barney behind her. She stared; they saw her take in the implication of Clive's arm, 'possessive and protective about Mary. Then 'Why, Mary Smith! That's the one thing I needed to make my day!' she said. And ran, laughing, to make it a threesome embrace.