The Young Intruder (3 page)

“I really don’t understand how you can be so wonderfully cheerful, Douglas. It is all right for me to call you Douglas?”

“Don’t imitate,” he said. “Believe me, Alison, I wasn’t always cheerful. You couldn’t believe what a merry hell I made of life, for everybody round me as well as myself. For months and months I was a complete misery; and, of course, everybody was so sorry for me that they let me get away with it. But when I got out of the hospital and came here, quite prepared to give everybody hell, thinking, well, after what I’d put up with, it wouldn’t hurt
them
: well, then Peter went for me. Good and hard. And taught me a thing or two.”

“How could he?” wondered Alison.

“My dear, best thing that ever happened to me,” said Douglas cheerfully. “When I was cracking on a bit more than usual, being thoroughly sorry for myself, he suddenly towered over me like an avenging Colossus, said I behaved more like an hysterical girl than a man, and that if he’d got to box my ears to make me see sense, he wouldn’t be above doing it. I believe he would have done, too; but fortunately, I saw sense. I was, of course, doing my level best to drive everybody away from me, as Peter pointed out; they would soon have avoided me like the plague. Since that day, as they say, I’ve never looked back.”

“But it must be foul for you sometimes,” she said.

He smiled at her, right into her grey eyes.

“Oh, Alison, you’re going to be good for me,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ll have fun together, won’t we? And we’ll begin with our little coffee ceremonial. Ring the bell, dear heart, ring the bell.”

They had their coffee together, and they sat talking in the drawing room until luncheon. Alison was asking innumerable questions about London and life in England, and Douglas was doing his best to answer them all. At last, he said:

“We have to go down to lunch. Priscilla doesn’t like people to be late for meals.”

“How do you manage to get down?” asked Alison. “Can I help you?”

“Usually, somebody brings me mine here on a tray. It saves trouble. But to-day, I insist on lunching with you. That means that Thomas will have to come up and carry me down; which is mortifying usually, but I find that I don’t mind with you. Why is that, do you think?”

“Because you have found a really friendly spirit?”

“Must be. I suppose you noticed how tough Thomas is? I sometimes wonder if that is why Peter engaged him. Well, you run along, Alison, and I’ll join you at lunch.”

In the afternoon, he insisted that she should go out into the sunshine, and Alison, thinking that perhaps he wanted to rest, went out to discover the shops in Regent Street, and spent several hours exploring.

Peter was at home when she returned to the house. He was reading papers in the drawing’ room, while Douglas sat on the other side of the fire playing a complicated game of patience.

“I was begin
n
ing to worry about you,” said Douglas.

“Did you get yourself lost this time?” asked Peter.

“No. I explored for a long time, and I thought I would take a bus back, but I got on one going the wrong way; and the conductor gave me such very complicated directions that I decided to take a taxi. And how tired I am.
”

Peter had already drawn a chair up to the fire for her. She sank into it gratefully, and they talked together. Alison, her mind full of new impressions, yet found time to study the two brothers together. They were very alike, but Douglas seemed like a smaller copy of Peter. He was not so tall or broad (though his thinness was probably caused by his long illness); he was not quite so handsome, not quite so dark, nor so compelling. Both had rather serious faces in repose, both had smiles of surprising sweetness; yet Alison felt that most people, and certainly most women, would turn to Peter first. Peter, she thought, was a man of mature mind. Douglas was a boy who had had to spend years struggling with a serious handicap. Women would feel maternal about Douglas—why, she felt a little maternal about him herself; but they would not feel maternal about Peter. Peter would occasion quite different feelings, she felt sure.

Later in the evening, they were seated once more in the drawing room, having their coffee after dinner. Peter now was quite magnificent in evening dress, but Alison had not changed, nor, as was to be expected, had Douglas. Nora opened the door to announce a visitor, and Alison looked up with interest, to see who was coming in.

The woman who came in was indeed a surprise. She matched Peter in magnificence, bringing with her a rustle of silk, a delica
c
y of perfume, a grooming that was perfect and clothes that proclaimed themselves Parisian at the first glance. She swept in—there was no other word for the graceful, confident movements that brought her across to the fire.

“How very cosy you all look in here,” she said, smiling down at them. Peter was up, helping her to remove the soft fur cape, and bringing her a chair. “Am I in time to have coffee with you?” she went on.

“First, you must meet our guest,” said Peter. “Lydia, here is Alison, Alison Vale; Alison, Miss Peyton.”

“How do you do?” said Lydia graciously, turning to look full at Alison. Alison smiled at her. For a moment, their glances locked, then Lydia looked away again at Peter. He was offering her a cigarette, and she made a little performance of lighting it, looking up at him afterwards with an intimate smile.

“Now,” she said. “I have time to say hallo to my dear Douglas. How are you, Douglas? Improving all the time?”

“I believe so,” he said.

“Ah, you wait a little; now you have somebody to be a companion for you, you will improve tremendously.”

Alison smiled dutifully. She said:

“Will you have your coffee black, Miss Peyton?”

“Naturally. Thank you.” She accepted a cup of coffee, and then sugar for it, and sank in her chair. She said to Peter: “I suppose we must not be too late for this party, or it will not be very polite to Signor Micotti.”

“There is plenty of time,” he said comfortably.

“Oh,” said Alison, flashing into life, are you going to meet Signor Micotti? To-night?”

“Yes,” said Peter, watching her. “Why?”

“The
Signor Micotti? Oh, do give him my love when you see
him
. Will you? And ask him what concerts he is giving here in London. I would love to hear him again.”

“You know him?” asked Peter.

“Yes. He was always so kind. And I used to play with Maria Micotti. Do give him my me
s
sage, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Peter. “But it would be much better if you came yourself to the party. It would be quite all right for us to take you, and you could see him again.”

“Oh no,” said Alison. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding, and anyway, I have no suitable dress. Just give him my love.”

“The dress doesn’t matter,” said Peter. “We can take her with us, can’t we, Lydia?”

“Well, you know,” said Lydia carefully, “I don’t think Alison would enjoy the party if she were not suitably dressed. And even if she could change, there would hardly be time. We really ought to be going, Peter.”

Peter looked thoughtfully at Lydia, and then at Alison. Alison said quickly:

“In any case, I have every intention of staying here with Douglas. He is going to teach me to play cards, and I am going to win a fortune from him.”

“That’s what you think,” said Douglas comfortably.

Lydia was already picking up her fur cape, and Peter rose to help her with it. She smiled into his eyes.

“It is much better to leave the two children together,” she said softly. He smiled back at her.

“Perhaps you are right,” he agreed.

They said their goodbyes and went out to their party. Douglas leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Give me some more coffee, Alison, there’s a dear,” he said.

She poured some for herself and for him, and they sipped it in unison.

“Oh, wasn’t she annoyed?” asked Douglas.

“Yes, she was quite furious, but she did hide it pretty well. She did
not
want me crashing in on her evening.”

“No. She thinks she has a monopoly where Peter is concerned.”

“Are they engaged to be married?”

“Lord, no. Though a good many people think they will be.”

Alison did not reply to that. She was thinking what a pity it would be. She had recognised Lydia’s type at once. Smart people were the same the world over, she thought; it did not matter whether you met them in London, Paris or Rome, New York or Rio or Venice. The clothes came from the same Paris couturieres, the perfumes from Paris; the interests were the same, the food was the same, the circle of well-known names the same. Lydia Peyton was so finished as to look enamelled, decided Alison, and she did not like to think that Peter would marry her.

“Pity about Micotti,” Douglas was saying. “You would like to have met him again, wouldn’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Alison. “Perhaps Peter can tell me where he is staying, and I could go round and have some tea with him. That would be even nicer.”

Douglas laughed.

“You are very cool. Half the musical set of London are dying to meet him, and you talk calmly of going to tea with him. Do you really know him that well?”

“Yes. Or my parents did. In any case, whether I see him or not, I wouldn’t have cared to go to-night, when I was so obviously not wanted. And I would have cut rather a poor figure against all that magnificence, wouldn’t I?”

“Well,
I
like it much better that you are here,” said Douglas, and began to teach her his card games. But though Alison learned the rules, and spent most of the evening shuffling the cards, being beaten, and laughing about her defeat, there was a picture of Lydia at the back of her mind. Lydia had had no slightest intention of taking her to the party; she obviously wanted to keep her monopoly where Peter was concerned. But Alison had an idea that, if she herself had not so quickly declared her intention of staying with Douglas, Peter would have made an issue of it. I must be careful, she told herself, I would not want to make that woman my enemy.

Alison had heard the low remark that Lydia had addressed to Peter about the children, and she smiled a little, remembering it. Perhaps that would be her line; that she and Douglas were children. She who had travelled a good deal, met many interesting people, and come through the ordeal of her father’s death, and later, her mother’s: Douglas, who had come through a more frightful ordeal than most people had to face, who had suffered endlessly, but was at last coming successfully through it. Children? Hardly, but no doubt it would suit Lydia to say so.

CHAPTER THREE

AT the end of two weeks as a guest in Peter’s house, Alison found that she had settled very easily into its routine, largely as a result of Douglas’s help and Douglas’s good nature. She rose in the morning in time to have breakfast with Peter, having discovered that he took his at eight o’clock every day, before leaving for his office. Sometimes Priscilla was with them; sometimes she decided to have a tray in her room, and this was the course that Alison preferred, since Peter would talk to her if Priscilla was not there to do so. Otherwise, he would become immersed in his letters, and probably make a few notes of things he wished to remember to do during the day; but always he said goodbye to her very charmingly, and often made suggestions of ways in which she might spend her day.

Without Douglas, she might have found those days a little lonely. Priscilla was obviously anxious about her, feeling that she should be doing something to entertain the stranger within the gates, yet not wishing to do so. But Douglas was pleased that she was there; they spent a good deal of time together, and she went off on many shopping expeditions for him. Together, they made a note of new books they would like to read, and Alison would go off to buy them, and probably browse for so long in the fascinating shops that she would have to hurry back to be in time for luncheon. Or Douglas would wish that he were able to go to an exhibition of some kind, and Alison would go instead and come back to report on it for him. Alison, too, had been quick to appreciate the beautiful tone of the piano in the drawing room, and Douglas would sit near her in the wheel chair and listen while she sang folk songs. She had an amazing collection of them, singing them in a clear voice that had not much power but that was admirable for these songs in a restricted space; in four languages, which seemed to come very easily to her. Then Douglas would shoo her away from the piano and wheel his chair into place before it, and make the air hideous with his own particularly evil brand of swing, until Alison would clap her hands over her ears and threaten to go out and leave him, if he would not stop.

One day, as they sat in the drawing room near the window, in the full sun, drinking their mid-morning co
f
fee, Alison said:

“Would it be possible, do you think, Douglas, to get a ticket for the first night of the new Mortimer play?”

“At this late hour? Not a hope of it,” said Douglas.

“What a pity. I would love to see them. I’ve read so much about Keith and Fanny Mortimer, but I’ve never seen them—at least, only in films, which hardly count. Perhaps I can get a ticket for later.”

“Perhaps Peter could wangle you one,” said Douglas. “He’s sure to be there, with Lydia.”

“I wouldn’t want to go with them,” Alison put in quickly. “I wouldn’t like that any more than Lydia would; though Peter might suggest it if he thought I wanted to go. Douglas,
you
ask him for a ticket—for a friend of yours. Will you?”

“Sure. I only wish I could come with you.”

“You must hurry up and get better, so that you can take me! We will make a special celebration then.”

“Sure, but I’m afraid you may have to wait some time.”

Douglas was able to get a ticket from Peter, though Peter said he might have given him a little more time. It had to be rather round at the side of the theatre, but was, at least, in the front row of the circle. Alison immediately began to look forward to the play, since the Mortimers, husband and wife, were probably the best acting team in the country.

She was at the theatre early on the important night. The circle had a few people in it, but the stalls were still practically empty. The back of the circle and the upper circle were already full, and there was the cheerful hum of conversation and air of anticipation that never failed to excite Alison. A group of people arrived and took the seats on her right, talking among themselves and taking no notice of her. After a few more minutes, a young man arrived and sat on her left, and then leaned forward with his arms on the padded shelf before him, to watch the arrivals in the stalls. Alison was watching, too, interested in the beautiful gowns, and interested in her first English theatre. It seemed so strange to her not to hear all the excited babble to which she was accustomed, but only this rather more sedate hum. Suddenly, the young man turned to her with a smile and said:

“Here comes Wilkes—wonder what he’ll have to say about it.”

She opened her eyes wide.

“Wilkes?” she said. “Where?”

He pointed out a rotund little man about to take his seat in the stalls, but interrupting himself frequently in this intention by stopping to talk to people he considered important enough.

“And who is Wilkes?” asked Alison of the young man.

He looked at her in surprise.

“The critic,” he said. “Imagine your not knowing Wilkes. Nearly always damns everything out of hand. Oh, and there’s Bobben. You know Bobben, I suppose?”

“The author, you mean?”

“Well, yes, though I suppose he’s more famous now as a broadcaster. He’ll talk about the play on the radio, you know, but he’ll give himself two boosts for every one for the play. You know who that is coming in now.”

“Which one?” asked Alison.

“The tall man with the beautiful woman in white.”

“No. Somebody very important?”

“Depends how you look at it. He’s Charles Winlake, the conductor, and she’s his wife.”

“Oh, then I know him—at least, I’ve heard him. In Salzburg and Paris and Lisbon. I think he’s wonderful.”

“I say, you’ve been about a bit, haven’t you? Oh, see that fellow coming in now, with the red-head? That’s Peter Malliner.”

“And what does he do?” asked Alison, watching Peter as he escorted Lydia to their seats, smiling at friends, stopping for a word here and there. He looks wonderful, too, she thought, not taking her eyes off him.

“I don’t know that he does anything himself,” said her new acquaintance, “but he makes it possible for others to do things. Supposed to be fabulously rich, but you always have to take details with a grain of salt. Brings over obscure groups of artists from foreign countries, you know, and companies who act the lesser
-
known dramatists; keeping up standards of culture at his own financial risk. And nearly always seems to bring it off, which proves he’s a good businessman too. He brought over a French company to do Moliere—it was marvellous. Report says he will marry the red-head
...
Oh, and that’s Micotti, the little man talking to Winlake. He’s a bit of a wizard too.”

“It’s very kind of you to brief me on all this,” said Alison, a little amused at her companion.

“Well, I imagine it’s your first first-night, isn’t it?”

“It’s my first time ever in an English theatre.”

“Good heavens, really? How did you wangle a ticket for this?”

“I know somebody who knows the stars,” she said. “How did you?”

“I know one of the critics, one of the good ones.” They smiled at each other, and he saw that she was what he called “a honey.” She saw that he was a fresh
-
looking, likeable young man, with a keen expression and a ready smile.

“How come that you’ve never been in an English theatre?” he wanted to know.

“I left England when I was a little girl, and have only been back a few weeks.”

“Where did you live?”

“All over the place,” she said. “Most of the European countries—and South Africa.”

A lot of his interest in the people arriving in the stalls had gone now; he was interested in the girl who sat beside him.

“Which of them did you like best?”

“I couldn’t answer that briefly,” she said. “There are lovely places in all the countries; good spots and bad spots, likeable things and hateful things. I love Austria; I love parts of Italy; and Paris, of course
...
oh, I don’t know.”

The lights began to go down. He determined that he would hold on to her in the intervals. And he did. They talked all through the first interval, keeping in their seats; about the play and other plays; about die acting, but chiefly about themselves. In the second interval, he took her to the bar to buy her a drink, and she learned that he was Guy Dealing, that he was twenty-seven, that he lived in London and worked there; that he lived with a friend who was in the Civil Service, and that he would greatly appreciate it if Alison would have supper with him after the play.

“I don’t think I can do that,” she said. “After all, I don’t know you very well, do I?”

“I’m doing my best to remedy that,” he said.

“It’s very nice of you to ask me, though.”

“Do come. I assure you I’m perfectly respectable.”

“Yes, I think you are,” laughed Alison. “All right, I will come, but I must not be too late, because I am not expected to stay out to supper.”

“Oh, fine,” said Guy Dearing. “Fine.”

They went back to their seats for the last act of the play; but for both of them, in truth, the usual glamour of a first night was a little dimmed by their discovery of each other. Alison had found her first friend in London, outside the Mayfair house. Guy had found what he was firmly convinced was his ideal: he had always thought of his ideal as a dark-eyed, vivacious brunette, but his first sight of Alison had proved how wrong he was. He was proud to escort her down the stairs, after the final curtain and all the applause and speeches and ballyhoo, into the foyer; and there the crowd was so dense that it was going to be a matter of minutes before they would make their way through it.

“Just follow me,” said Guy, prepared to make a way for her through the standing, gossiping throng; but when he turned his head to make sure she was there, she was not following him. Instead, she was standing still, face to face with Peter Malliner, and looking a little confused as she spoke to him. Guy paused in doubt, and then slowly made his way back to her. He heard Peter Malliner saying:

“But Alison, you should have told me, my dear.”

“I knew your arrangements were already made, and I didn’t want to alter them,” she said. “I haven’t made you angry, have I?”

“Angry! You’ve made me aware of my own shortcomings. Come with us now, to the party.”

“Oh, Peter, how can I? I’m not properly dressed.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say that Lydia would not like it, but she checked herself and added: “And, anyway, I have an appointment for supper.”

Peter looked at her quickly.

“With whom?” he asked.

She turned her head, and saw Guy standing near her. She smiled and beckoned to him.

“With Mr. Dearing,” she said. She introduced them. Peter looked at Guy Dearing and could not find anything wrong with what he saw, but he thought he would find time for a few words with Alison in the near future. He said:

“Well, look after her, Dearing; and don’t keep her out too late; and enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” said Alison. “I think we are going to.”

Peter watched them out of sight, and turned away to find Lydia, who was deep in conversation with friends. How fresh and young they both looked, he thought;
clear eyes and honest expressions, not yet glossed over by all the expedients they would have to find as the years went on. Then he remembered that Alison had had to get a ticket for herself, and was angry with himself for his neglect. He feared he was not doing his duty by Alison, who was his responsibility.

Alison and Guy walked out of die theatre together, and turned to walk along the brightly-lit, crowded street.

“I must have made a fool of myself,” he said ruefully.

“You?” Alison was surprised. “But how?”

“You already knew Peter Malliner. For all I know, you knew all the people there to-night. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh. No, it was only Peter I knew, really. Well, of course, I do know Signor Micotti, too
...
”

“There you are. Well, I’m sorry if I intruded.”

Alison smiled at him.

“Now you’re getting stiff and polite, and I really don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”

“Who
are
you?” asked Guy.

“My name is Alison Vale, which won’t convey anything to you. I’m a nobody. But, just for the time being, I am living in Peter’s house.”

“Good Lord,” he said.

“Perhaps I should have said that I am a guest in his house. Shall I tell you all about it?”

“Yes, do. But first, let us find a place for supper, and then we can settle down for a real session. Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere you choose. I don’t know London at all, but where you usually go will do fine.”

“I don’t know if it would,” he began doubtfully, but Alison smiled at him, assured him that it would, and that she would be quite cross with him if he made any alterations in his usual procedure; so that she found herself with
him
in a vast place, brilliantly lit, crowded with people, its many restaurants offering a bewildering selection of styles and prices, and relying a good deal on marble pillars and chromium for decoration.

“What a
fascinating
place,” commented Alison. “I could sit for hours just watching the people. What are they all doing here so late at night?”

“Just what we’re doing. Hoping for supper. And having a good sit down. Now, tell me about yourself.
”

So, sitting at a table for two in the crowded restaurant she told him of the circumstances that had brought her to London to be a guest in Peter Malliner’s house; and told him a very little of the colourful life that she had led on the Continent, chiefly during her holidays from school.

“And now,” she said, “that is quite enough about me, and I would like to hear about you.”

“There’s nothing to hear about me. I envy you the kind of life you’ve had so far; mine, in comparison, is as dull as ditchwater. No, I can’t say that. It will
sound
as dull as ditchwater, but actually I’ve had a pretty good time. But it boils down to ordinary grammar
-
school schooldays, and then a more or less ordinary job, with a few good holidays and a few good friends, and a fair amount of sport thrown in.”

“Family?”

“Lord, yes. Living in Kent. Parents, two sisters and a brother. It’s just a bit too far to come up every day, unless I want to spend my life travelling, so I room up here with a friend in the Civil Service, as I told you.” She smiled at him across the small table.

“I suppose,” said Guy, “you don’t know many people in London?”

“Nobody. I have, as a matter of fact, a long list of addresses; of people I can look up. People we met in all kinds of Continental towns, some quite good friends, some only acquaintances. But there hasn’t been much time to do much about them yet.”

“I wish you’d let me see you sometimes,” he said.

“Why not? That would be very nice. I expect you know a great many interesting places, and I want to see them all.”

“Then please appoint me your guide,” he said promptly.

She said she would, but it was somebody else who became her first guide. Guy saw her home that evening, and made a grimace when she gave the address to the taxi-driver; but resolved that an exclusive Mayfair address was not going to keep him off. He made an arrangement to see her on the following Saturday afternoon, and left her, his mind full of her, unable to escape from her.

Peter arrived at the house a few minutes after Alison, and found her drinking coffee from some left in a thermos jug in the drawing room. He joined her and she poured coffee for him.

“Alison, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go to that play?”

She looked faintly apologetic.

“I don’t want you to feel responsible for me,” she said. “I shall feel that I’m a nuisance if you have to keep arranging things for me.”

“But it would have been a pleasure to take you there.”

“Miss Peyton would not have liked that,” said Alison.

Peter knew that that was the truth. He said:

“If there is anything you want to see in future—and, of course, there will be a great deal—please mention it to me, will you? I can at least see about your tickets.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You are too good to me.”

“There is one thing, Alison, I should mention to you.”

“Yes?” She looked up at him, in faint apprehension, because his voice was grave.

“That young man to-night. How did you meet him?”

“He sat in the seat next to me and
p
ointed out the celebrities to me; and he asked me to have supper with him.”

“Well,
he
looked quite a decent young fellow; but
n
ot all the men loose in London are decent fellows, Alison, and I’m sure it isn’t wise to credit many of them with disinterested motives. What I’m trying to tell you, my dear child, is that there are plenty of bounders about, and I don’t want you to be taken in by them.”

“I won’t make a habit of talking to strangers,” she said. “But this Guy Dearing is really quite above reproach. I have, in fact, said that I will meet him again.”

After a few minutes’ discussion of the play and the acting, they went their separate ways; but Peter thought that he should make a little more effort where Alison was concerned. She had no friends in London, and Douglas, with whom she was on the friendliest terms, and who would have been, in other circumstances, the ideal companion and guide for her, was out of the question. It wasn’t enough, he told himself, simply to bring her to a strange city and settle her in his house; something more than that was required of him.

Therefore, next morning at breakfast, which they had alone since Priscilla was suffering from a cold and was taking her breakfast in bed, Peter said:

“How are you settling down with us, Alison?”

“Too well,” she told him, smiling a little ruefully. “I shall not want to uproot myself when the time comes.”

“No need to think about that,” he said. “How much of London have you seen by now?”

“Very little really. And so
much
that I want to see
.
The shops, of course, are fascinating. Quite wonderful. And they never seem to come to an end. And the way you keep coming suddenly to parks and green spaces is lovely. But of all the old and historical places I’ve only seen Westminster Abbey so far. And I couldn’t really say I’ve seen that. I suppose you could go back again and again.”

He smiled at her young enthusiasm.

“Well, which are the next places on your list?”

“Oh, the Tower of course. Everybody always goes to see the Tower of London. I must see that. And St. Paul’s; and there is a Monument, isn’t there? You climb up and see a wonderful view—perhaps it is like the Eiffel Tower.”

Peter laughed.

“Not in the least like it,” he said. “That will be disillusionment number one. Well, Alison, how would you
like it if I take a day off to-morrow, and drive you to the Tower and St. Paul’s and some of the other places?”

“Oh, but I couldn’t be such a nuisance,” she said.

“Wouldn’t you like it?”

“I would
love
it, but you can’t waste a whole day on me.”

He laughed.

“It’s a deal,” he said. “To-morrow, if the weather is fine. And now I must go.” He stood up, gathering his letters together. “Soon, Alison,” he said, “we must have a serious talk.”

“Yes,” she said at once. “I have also been thinking that.”

“Oh?” he turned an enquiring glance towards her.

“Yes. It has been delightful here, Peter, but I can’t go on—lotus-eating—indefinitely.”

“Oh, that. Are you so anxious to leave us?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, we will have quite a serious talk soon. But we will dispose of the Tower first, shall we?”

He went out, and Alison sat at the table, finishing her breakfast. She did not know that there was a pleased little smile round her
li
ps, or that he
r
eyes were shining already in anticipation of the morrow, but she did recognise the faint fee
l
ing of excitement that was beginning to flutter her. As soon as she could go and find Douglas, which was not until the masseur had been and gone, and Thomas had helped him to dress, she went to tell him her good news.

“Good-morning,” said Douglas, giving her his beautiful smile.

“Good-morning,
mein Liebchen,”
she said.

“Come and give me a kiss,” he said.

“What?” she sounded astonished.

“I said, Come and give me a kiss.”

She stared at him for a moment, but what she saw in his face apparently reassured her, for she crossed to his chair, kissed him lightly and fleetingly, and stood back to smile at him.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going to be a complication in your young life. You look so radiant this morning that I thought I would like to kiss you. It’s a long time since I kissed a girl, Alison.”

“Oh Douglas
...
Perhaps the day won’t be so very far off.”

“It
will
be one of the things to look forward to,” he said, laughing. “One of the many, many things. Now come and sit down and tell me about the play last night.”

She sat down and told him, painting the scene with her own freshness and enthusiasm; including her meeting with Guy and her arrangement to see him again.

“And what
do
you think?” she said at last. “Tomorrow, Peter is going to take a whole day off, and is taking me to the Tower and St. Paul’s, and showing me some of London. It’s simply thrilling.”

Douglas looked at her with sudden awareness. Was that the reason for her radiance this morning, he wondered. Peter’s motive was pretty plain. His conscience had pricked him last night, meeting Alison at the theatre; and he was atoning to her for what he imagined was neglect. Douglas wondered what importance to attach to the fact that Alison was so obviously delighted.

Next morning, they breakfasted together in more leisurely fashion, Priscilla with them. It seemed to Alison that Priscilla did not approve of this gallivanting. Perhaps she thought that Alison’s influence was altogether too disruptive when it took Peter away from his office. Alison, however, was too happy about the day before her to bother about Priscilla for the moment. Before she left with Peter, she ran upstairs to say goodbye to Douglas.

Douglas was still in bed. He had finished breakfast and was now awaiting the daily visit of the masseur. Alison had not been into his room before, and she thought how thin he looked, and how boyish, in his striped pyjamas.

“I came up to say goodbye to you,
Liebling,”
she said. She crossed to the side of the bed and kissed his cheek. “You won’t be lonely all day without me?”

“Do you think you are indispensable to my comfort?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But I was, perhaps, hoping so.” He took her hand and squeezed it hard.

“Of course I’m going to miss you,” he said. “But it will teach me not to be selfish and rely on you too much. Have a good time, Alison.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure to. Goodbye, Douglas.”

She said to Peter, as they drove off in his beautiful car: “I feel sorry to leave Douglas for a whole day.”

“I’m afraid he has had many lonely days,” said Peter, to whom this was also a worry.

“But that’s no reason why he should now that I am here,” she said. Then she smiled up at him. “But just for to-day,” she added, “I won’t let it worry me.”

They went to the Tower of London, and Peter escorted her round it. Everything, from her first glimpse of its heavy stone walls, delighted her. She listened, absorbed, interested, to everything he had to tell, and asked so many questions that Peter said it was beyond him to answer them all. She would ask a question, and then look up at him, awaiting his answer; and each time she did so, she thought how handsome and distinguished and utterly right he looked. She deliberately said things to amuse him, so that she could look for the smile that would illumine the seriousness of his expression. As they came to awkward staircases or slopes, he held out a hand to help her, and although she was perfectly able to negotiate them all by herself, she took the helping hand each time, in order to feel the firm, strong fingers close around her own.