“You should marry, Professor.” She added, “Someone suitable, of course.”

“How unpleasant that sounds! You consider that I have reached an age when a suitable marriage is all that is left for me?”

“Heavens, no. I’m not sure exactly how old you are, but William said thirty-five—that’s not in the least old—just right, in fact.”

“But I do not wish to make a suitable marriage, Miss Partridge—a tepid love and a well-ordered life with ups and downs. I would wish for fun, a few healthy quarrels and a love to toss me to the skies.”

He turned to look at her, smiling, so she knew that his words weren’t meant to be taken seriously.

“Would you consider yourself to be a suitable wife for me, little Partridge?”

About the Author

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

A Star Looks Down
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

IT was going to be a lovely day, but Beth Partridge, tearing round the little kitchen, hadn’t had time to do more than take a cursory look out of the window; on duty at eight o’clock meant leaving the flat at seven-thirty sharp, and that entailed getting up at half past six—and every minute of that hour filled.

She worked tidily as well as fast; the flat looked pristine as she closed its front door and tore down the three flights of stairs, ran smartly out of the entrance and round the corner to the shed where she kept her bike. A minute later she was weaving her way in and out of London’s early morning traffic, a slim figure with long legs, her titian hair, arranged in a great bun above her neck, glowing above the blue sweater and slacks. It took her exactly twenty minutes this morning; ten minutes, she thought with satisfaction, in which to change into uniform and take a quick look round the Recovery Room to make sure that everything was just as she had left it the evening before. She rounded one of the brick pillars, which marked the entrance to St Elmer’s Hospital, going much too fast and before she could stop herself, ran into a man; fortunately a large man, who withstood the shock of a bicycle wheel in his back with considerable aplomb, putting out an unhurried hand to steady her handlebars and bring her to a halt before he turned round.

She had put out a leg to steady herself, and now, the bike slightly askew, she stood astride it, returning his calm, unhurried examination of her person with what dignity she could muster. He had a nice face; a little rugged perhaps, but good-looking, although the nose was too beaky and the mouth too large, even though it looked kind. His eyes were kind too, blue and heavy-lidded under thick arched brows a shade darker than his pale hair.

‘Oh, dear!’ she was breathless. ‘I am sorry—you see I was on the late side and I didn’t expect you.’ She smiled at him, her rather plain but pleasant face suddenly pretty, her astonishing violet eyes—her one beauty—twinkling at him.

‘If it comes to that,’ said the man, ‘I wasn’t expecting you, either.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

She was already a few yards away when she wheeled back again. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ she asked anxiously. ‘If you are, I’ll take you along to Cas. and someone will have a look at you.’

His mouth twitched. ‘My dear young lady, yours is a very small bicycle and I, if you take a good look, am a very large man—eighteen stone or so. I hardly noticed it.’

She beamed her relief. ‘Oh, good. ‘Bye.’

She was off again, pedalling furiously for a side door, and because she was going to be late, she left her bike down the covered passage which led to the engineer’s shop; she would ring them presently and ask one of them to take it round to the shed where the nurses were supposed to keep their bicycles; it wouldn’t be the first time she had done it.

She still had some way to go; through the old part of the hospital, across the narrow alley separating it from the new wing, and then up several flights of stairs; she arrived at the swing doors which led to the theatre unit only very slightly out of breath, her face, with its small high-bridged nose and wide mouth, flushed by her exertions.

Sister Collins was in the changing room, buttoning her theatre dress. ‘Almost late,’ she commented as she went out, and Beth sighed as she tore out of her clothes. Sister Collins was the kind of person who said, ‘Almost late,’ when anyone else would have said, ‘A minute to spare.’

Beth tucked her brilliant hair into the mob cap worn by theatre staff and made for the Recovery Room. There was a heavy list for the day and she wouldn’t be off until half past four; she cast a regretful look out of the window at the blue sky and sunshine of the April morning outside—Chifney would be looking its best, she thought, on such a morning, but her old home belonged to her stepbrother now, and she hadn’t seen it for a long time. Philip had inherited it when their father died, and neither she nor William, her younger brother, had been back since, not even for a holiday. Philip wouldn’t exactly turn them out if they chose to go there, but he and his wife would make it quite plain that they were only there on sufferance. She remembered how, when they had been quite small, and he ten years older, he had been at pains to explain to them that their mother was their father’s second wife and therefore they would have nothing at all when he died and that he, for his part, had no intention of giving them a home. He had always hated his stepmother, a quiet gentle woman who wouldn’t have harmed a fly, and when she had died he had transferred his bitter dislike to herself and William.

And it had turned out exactly as he had said it would. Luckily William had been left just enough money to finish university and train as a doctor, and Beth, bent on being a nurse and having nowhere else to go, had joined forces with him, and for five years now had lived in a rather poky little flat in the more unfashionable part of London, SE. She had been left a tiny annuity too, which helped, especially as William was extravagant, and on the whole they managed quite well. William was doing his post-graduate years now and she had been a staff nurse for two years and there had been hints just lately that very shortly she would be offered a Sister’s post. She had nothing to complain of, she assured herself as she went round methodically testing the oxygen, inspecting the trays and making sure that there was enough of everything to keep them going until the end of the list. Harriet King, the third-year nurse who worked with her, had already fetched the blood for the first case and was now, under Sister Collins’ sharp eyes, setting out an injection tray. Beth picked up the theatre list, glanced at the clock and went off to fetch the first patient, a middle-aged lady from the Private Wing on the floor below, who, despite her pre-med., indulged, once she was on the trolley and in the lift, in an attack of screaming hysterics, which was rather overdoing things, seeing that she was only having a small nodule removed from one shoulder; a matter of five minutes’ work by the surgeon and accompanied by no possible cause for alarm.

Beth soothed her as best she could, chatting about this and that and laying a surprisingly firm hand on the lady’s well-upholstered front when she signified her intention of sitting up.

‘Now, now,’ said Beth soothingly, genuinely sorry for the poor scared woman, ‘here’s Mr Todd who is to give you the anaesthetic—you saw him yesterday, didn’t you? I’m going to hold your hand and he’ll give you the teeniest prick in your arm and you’ll go to sleep at once.’

The patient started to protest, but Mr Todd had slipped in his needle and her eyes had closed before she could frame even one word.

‘You’re always so nice to them,’ he said. ‘Give me that tube, Beth—in the bad old days she would have gone to her local GP and he’d have done it under a local and no nonsense.’

She smiled at him behind her mask. ‘But it isn’t what’s going to be done to you—that’s all the same once you’re under—it’s the idea…’

She broke off to hand over to Theatre Staff Nurse, and with a cheerful little nod slid back into the Recovery Room; they would be ready in Theatre Two for their first case. She collected a porter and a trolley and set off once more, this time to Men’s Surgical.

The morning slid quietly away and had become afternoon before there was a chance to get a meal, and then it was sandwiches and yoghurt sent up from the canteen. And the afternoon went even more quickly, with all four theatres going flat out and an emergency added on to the end of Theatre One’s list just as Beth was starting to clear up. She would be home late again, and William, whose free evening it was, would have to wait for the dinner she had promised to cook for him. She was finished at last, though, and changed without much thought to her appearance and making her way out of the theatre block into the labyrinth of passages which took up the space behind the impressive entrance hall in the older part of the hospital. She was negotiating these when she saw her brother ahead of her. He was standing at the junction of four passages, talking to someone out of sight, which didn’t prevent her cheerful: ‘William—I’m only just off, so supper will be late. You’d better call in at the Black Dog and have a pint…’ She had reached him by now and went on briskly: ‘Why are you making that extraordinary face?’

There was no need for him to tell her; his out-of-sight companion came into view as she reached the corner—the man she had almost run down on her bike that morning. She smiled at him. ‘Oh, hullo—is your back still OK?’

Seeing him for a second time she was struck by his size and by the fact that he wasn’t as young as she had supposed him to be. ‘You don’t always feel it at first,’ she explained kindly, and heard William draw in his breath sharply.

‘This,’ he said in his most reproving voice, ‘is Professor van Zeust from Leyden University in Holland—he lectures in surgery.’ His tone was reverent.

‘Oh, do you?’ Beth put out a hand and had it gently wrung. ‘I had no idea.’ Her engagingly plain face broke into a grin. ‘And me telling you to go along to Cas.! You could have told me.’

‘If you remember, you were already late,’ he reminded her. His voice was kind, but she had the impression that he didn’t want to waste time talking to her. She gave him a friendly nod, said, ‘See you later, William,’ and went on her way, aware that her brother wasn’t best pleased with her.

He got to the flat an hour later, just as she was laying the table for their supper, and being a careless young man, he cast his books on one chair, his scarf on to another and himself into a third.

‘You are a little idiot,’ he began, ‘talking like that to one of the most distinguished surgeons in Europe.’

Beth was at the stove, dishing up. ‘Oh? Does he live on a pedestal or something? He seemed quite human to me.’

‘Of course he’s human,’ her brother spoke testily, ‘but he’s…he should be respected…’

‘But I was quite polite.’

He agreed reluctantly and went on: ‘Yes, but do you know what he said after you’d gone? He wanted to know where you worked and then he said that you didn’t appear to him to be quite like the other nurses he had met.’

Beth bore their plates to the table. ‘Ah, he noticed how plain I am.’

‘Well, I daresay,’ William agreed with brutal candour, ‘but he could have meant that you didn’t treat him with enough respect.’

‘Pooh,’ said Beth with scorn, ‘and you were chatty enough, the pair of you.’

William was attacking his supper in the manner of a starving man. ‘I happened to meet him,’ he said with a full mouth and great dignity, ‘and he asked me to take a message about the times of his lectures.’

Beth gave him a second helping. ‘I wonder where he lives?’ she wanted to know.

‘Haven’t a clue. What’s for pudding?’

After supper he left her to the washing up and went to his room to study, and when she expressed surprise at his sudden enthusiasm for work, he told her rather sheepishly that old van Zeust was a good enough fellow and knew how to give a lecture. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘I happen to be interested in his particular line of work.’ He gave her a lofty look as he left the room, although he was back again within five minutes to ask if she could lend him a fiver until the end of the month.

She went and fetched the money at once, for she was a good sister to him and moreover quite understood that young men needed money for beer and taking girls out. The fiver was part of a nest egg she had been saving towards some new clothes, and she very much doubted if she would get it back again. But William was a dear; he had been kind to her when they had left Chifney and he paid his half of the rent, even if he did borrow it back again within a week or so. In a year or two’s time, when he had finished his post-graduate work and got himself a really good job, he would probably marry, and then she would have to find a smaller flat and live in it by herself—unless she got married too, and that didn’t seem very likely; not now. If she had stayed at home and her father had been alive, she would have been Miss Partridge of Chifney House, and perhaps one of the young men living in the district, sons of small landowners, would have married her, for there she had been the daughter of the house and what she lacked in looks she had made up for with charm, so that she had had a great many friends. But here in London, no one cared who she was; it had taken her a little while to get used to the indifference of Londoners to each other, and indeed, she had discovered during the years that they had lived there that life in a city wasn’t at all the same thing as life at Chifney—there, if you were ill, the whole village knew, willing helpers rallied round to feed the cat, mow the grass, leave delicious baked custards on the doorstep, fetch the children from school, and when her father had been alive he could always be depended upon to help out if funds were low. She very much doubted if her stepbrother did that.

The Dutch professor was in the theatre the next morning. The first case was a kidney transplant, to be done by Professor MacDonald, one of the leading men in that line of surgery. It was soon apparent that he and the Dutchman were old friends; Beth could hear their voices in the surgeons’ changing room, the Scotsman’s deliberate and a little gruff, his companion’s deep and slow. They came out together presently and went into theatre, and when Beth went in with the patient they were scrubbed, standing facing each other across the operating table. The surgical registrar was scrubbed too and so were two house surgeons; the place teemed with white and green-clad figures. Beth, thinking of the long hours ahead, was glad that she didn’t have to stay in theatre; she would be kept busy with patients from the other theatres and it would be later—much later—when she would come back to collect her patient once more. She handed him over now to the theatre staff and slipped away quickly to fetch the next case for Theatre Two.

It was hours later when she went to collect the kidney transplant. She was off duty at four-thirty again, but she saw that she could forget that; the man wasn’t well and needed constant attention from both herself and Harriet King; besides that, his drain blocked and she had to buzz for the registrar, and while they were getting it to work again the patient stopped breathing, so that she had to leave the drain to him and begin resuscitation while someone went hot-foot for Professor MacDonald.

He came immediately, straight from the changing room bringing Professor van Zeust with him, still in their theatre trousers and vests, their caps on their heads. They might have looked faintly absurd if it hadn’t been for their air of quiet authority.

It was a good deal later by the time the man was fit to move down to the Intensive Care Unit, and there was a great mass of clearing up to do after that. It was much later still when Beth crossed the courtyard on the way to fetch her bicycle and saw Professor van Zeust again. He looked quite different now; immaculate in a conventional, beautifully tailored suit. Out of the tail of her eye she saw him get into a massive Citroën CS, and decided that its size suited his vast proportions very nicely. He had gone by the time she had got her bike out and got back to the courtyard.

She didn’t see him for several days after that; indeed, beyond an annoying persistence her mind had developed in thinking of him, he should have been, as it were, a closed book. It was William who made it difficult for her to make an end of him; he talked about the Dutchman incessantly, not only when he got home in the evenings when he was free to do so, but during their breakfasts together; a meal usually eaten at speed and with no more conversation than was absolutely necessary. The professor was, according to her brother, not at all a bad fellow—knew his stuff but didn’t have a big head about it, and what was more, he had been a first-class rugger player.

‘Doesn’t he play any more?’ asked Beth, swallowing bread and butter as fast as she could.

William gave her a withering look. ‘Good lord, he’s getting on for forty—at least, he’s thirty-six, and that’s pretty old.’

She supposed it was; in twelve years’ time she would be that age herself, although forty in a man didn’t sound old at all, whereas in a woman… She wondered with vague worry where she would be when she was forty. In all probability not married, for her looks were hardly likely to improve with age.

It was the following day after this not very satisfying conversation that the theatre was alerted for an emergency. They had had a busy morning and a break for dinner would be nice, so that there was an involuntary sigh when the Theatre Super, Miss Toms, put her head round the door with the news. ‘Theatre One,’ she said crisply. ‘Miss Partridge, take one of the porters and go down to Private Wing—the patient is to come up at once. Acute appendix.’

Beth, half way out of her theatre dress, put it back on again. Miss Toms, fortyish, elegant and always polite, was obeyed by everyone, and that included the housemen, even at times the consultants, although they were probably unaware of it. She had a habit of addressing everyone by their correct names, too, which somehow made the theatre into a more human place to work in. She smiled at Beth now. ‘You shall be relieved, as soon as possible,’ she promised, ‘but this is rather a special patient—Mevrouw Thorbecke, Professor van Zeust’s sister. I imagine he will be coming into theatre. Professor MacDonald will be operating.’

Beth nodded and Miss Toms sailed away to scrub up; she always scrubbed for staff or staff’s family, and although the professor wasn’t quite staff, his sister would be accorded the same treatment.

The patient was a pretty woman even though she was a sickly pale green and her fair hair was damp with sweat. She was game too, for she managed a smile as they got her on to the trolley, she even managed a murmured hullo and muttered in English: ‘I didn’t believe it but they are violet.’ The remark mystified Beth, but there was so much to do just then that she forgot it immediately.

Miss Toms was right; Professor Van Zeust was in the anaesthetic room when they reached it, gowned and masked and talking to Professor MacDonald and Doctor Moore, the senior anaesthetist, but he didn’t stay long, only to say something in a cheerful voice and in his own language to his sister. He didn’t look at Beth at all.

It was a nasty appendix, on the point of perforation. The two men grunted with satisfaction when the offending thing had been removed and Professor MacDonald began to close the small wound. ‘Who is looking after the brats?’ he asked his companion.

The Dutchman snipped a suture thread. ‘No time to make any arrangements—not yet. I’ll have to get hold of someone, I suppose; Martina won’t feel like coping with them for a few weeks. They’re a match for anyone in the best of health, let alone for anyone a little under the weather.’

‘When’s Dirk due back?’

‘Another six weeks.’ He tossed the stitch scissors on to the Mayo’s table and stood back a little. He smiled over his mask at Miss Toms and then said, ‘Thanks, George, I’ll hang around if I may.’

The two men went out together and Beth came from the corner where she had been waiting to take over the care of the patient. It was quiet in the Recovery Room; there were no other patients there, most of the staff were still at their dinner and Miss Toms, having performed her duties with the ease and perfection expected of her, had disappeared too. A theatre staff nurse and a student were getting the theatre ready once more for the afternoon list, in ten minutes or so the rest of them would be streaming back and the skeleton staff which had remained behind would be free to go to their dinners. But for the moment Beth was occupied with her patient; there was little enough to do, as she would be round in a few minutes—indeed, as Beth inspected the quiet face on the trolley, she could see a faint tremor of the eyelids, so that she began the usual routine of hand patting and ‘Wake up, Mevrouw Thorbecke, it’s all over, everything’s fine.’

She had to do this several times before her patient responded with a languid lifting of her eyelids and a mumbled word or two which made no sense at all.

Beth made her observations and charted them and looked at her carefully; she was quite fit to go back to the ward, but no patient might be sent back from the Recovery Room until they opened their eyes properly, told the nurse their name and could state if they were in pain or not.

‘Are you in pain?’ asked Beth in her nice quiet voice.

Mevrouw Thorbecke nodded, her eyes shut.

‘I’ll give you something for it. Will you tell me your name?’

‘You know who I am—I wish to sleep.’ Her voice was a mumble and a frown came and went. ‘I have a pain.’

‘OK,’ said Beth, talking to herself, ‘you shall have something now, though you’re not really supposed to have it until you’re quite round. Hang on a sec…’

Mevrouw Thorbecke mumbled crossly in her own language as Beth checked her pulse. The smallest of sounds behind her made her look over her shoulder. Professor van Zeust was standing quite close, leaning against one of the trolleys and her eyes brightened at the sight of him. ‘Oh, what luck that you should turn up just when I could do with you,’ she exclaimed sunnily, and he, who had been there all the time, smiled a little.

‘You need help?’ he inquired mildly.

‘Well, Mevrouw Thorbecke is almost round and we’re not supposed to give a post-op. until the patient is quite conscious, but now you’re here, perhaps you’d give me the all clear to give her some Pethedine before she goes downstairs. She’s quite OK, but not quite with us yet.’

The professor’s mouth twitched just a little. ‘I’ll take the responsibility, Staff Nurse—ram home whatever you’ve got there and get her down to the ward, will you? Doctor Moore asked me to look in; he was called away to some emergency.’

He walked unhurriedly over to the trolley and took his sister’s pulse and when she opened an unwilling eye said something to her in a soft voice. ‘She’s fine,’ he declared, and went away so quietly that Beth didn’t realize that he had gone.

She delivered her patient, drowsy now, to the Ward Sister on the Private Wing and sped back to the Recovery Room. Sister Collins and Harriet would be back in a matter of minutes; she started to clear up with Mrs Wise, the orderly, to help her and they were just finished when the other two returned.

The afternoon went quickly after that, but then it nearly always did, there was always so much to do. The list was a long one and although Beth was due off at half past seven, it was considerably later than that when at last she left the theatre.

It had been William’s half day and she was surprised and touched to find that he had laid the table and made a few rather inadequate preparations for supper. He followed her into the kitchen while she cooked it, something he seldom did, so that she asked: ‘Aren’t you going out? You usually do on your half day—did Wendy stand you up?’

Wendy was the current young lady of his fancy; she was a physiotherapist whom no one liked much because she gave herself airs, but Beth had suffered an unending catalogue of her perfections with sisterly patience, knowing that within a week or two her brother’s eye would have been caught by some other girl. They were all alike, the young doctors and students, and no one took them seriously, although a few fell permanently in love and got engaged or even married. But William would be too busy for the next year or so to think about marrying; he had only just got started on his career and at the end of his six months with Professor MacDonald’s firm he would be joining the medical side if they would have him, and after that it would be a year—two years, at least, before he could apply for a post as registrar. She dished up their meal and carried it through to the sitting-room while he explained that Wendy hadn’t stood him up; he had decided to stay home because he wanted to talk to her.

‘Me?’ exclaimed Beth, much astonished at this brotherly attention. ‘Whatever for? I haven’t any money till payday…’

William frowned. ‘It’s not that,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’ve got a week’s holiday starting on Sunday, haven’t you, Beth?’ He sounded uneasy all at once.

She began her supper and then paused to pour their coffee. ‘Yes—fancy you remembering that. But it’s only Tuesday you know, and I’m not going anywhere. Do you want the flat to yourself or something?’

‘Don’t be dim. The thing is, if you’ve nothing to do I know of someone who wants to borrow you…’

‘Borrow me? Whatever for? Anyway, I’m on holiday—is it one of those agencies?’

‘No, as a matter of fact, it’s Professor van Zeust. You had his sister in theatre today, didn’t you? Well, he’s been left high and dry with her four children; they’re staying with him. He mentioned it to old Mac, and he knew—lord knows how—that you had a holiday coming up, and he suggested that you might step into the breach—just for a week, you know, and look after them. You’d be paid.’

Beth’s bosom swelled with indignation. ‘Well, whatever next—why me? Aren’t there agencies for nannies and mothers’ helps? Why can’t he go to one of them? I’ve no intention…’

She caught William’s eye and something in it made her say: ‘You wretch—you said I would!’ She drew a deep breath, her eyes very purple, but before she could speak he said hastily:

‘Oh, be a sport, Beth—after all, you’re not doing anything and it might be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Her voice was shrill with annoyance. ‘Have you ever looked after four children? They’re not even English!’ She paused and added triumphantly: ‘So I can’t.’

‘They’ve had an English nanny for years. I don’t know much about it, but I believe they live somewhere behind Harrods—quite super, and you’re bound to get heaps of free time.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘It’s only for a week.’

She stared at him across the table. ‘And supposing I should decide to do it, who is going to tell me what and when and where?’

He brightened. ‘Professor van Zeust said he’d make a point of seeing you tomorrow—there’s another kidney transplant, isn’t there? I shall be in theatre too,’ he paused to contemplate this pleasure, then went on: ‘There’s sure to be an opportunity to talk about it. I say, Beth, it would be jolly decent of you if you would, it’d do me a good turn—I mean, they’re more likely to remember me later on if there was the chance of a registrar’s job.’

Beth got up and started to collect the dishes. ‘Well, dear, I’m not going to say yes now, but I do promise to have an open mind if he says anything to me about it tomorrow, though probably he’ll have got someone else by then.’

But while she washed up she found herself hoping that the professor wouldn’t be able to find anyone else, even though before she went to bed she told William firmly that she hadn’t made up her mind…all the same, when she got into bed, she stayed awake quite a long while thinking about him.

CHAPTER TWO

BETH was on duty at eight o’clock the following morning and within a very short time the theatre was in full swing. She had fetched the kidney transplant case—a young girl in her teens—handed her over and gone again to collect the first of a long list of cases for the other theatres. The kidney case lasted a long time; it was early afternoon before she received the girl in the Recovery Room and although Professor van Zeust came with his colleague to see her, he had nothing to say other than a few quiet directions. They went away presently and later, after Beth had taken her case to ICU, an emergency came in and she was kept busy until some time after she was due off duty. Of the professor there was no sign, and she left the hospital feeling a bit let down; he might at least have given her the chance of refusing the job which he had so surprisingly suggested she might take. True, there had been no time to say anything at all for most of the day, but he could have left a message. Probably he had found someone else after all and forgotten about the whole thing.

She arrived at the flat rather cross, and over a cup of tea decided that nothing would persuade her to take the job now, even if he begged her to, and as this was highly unlikely she stopped thinking about it, drained the teapot, ate a piece of toast left over from breakfast, and fell to washing the smalls before getting the supper. William would be home shortly, before going back to St Elmer’s at ten o’clock to be on call for twenty-four hours, and he would be hungry, as usual. It was unfortunate that the kitty was at a low ebb, but it always was just before pay day. She settled on a macaroni cheese, made it rather impatiently and went to her room to tidy herself.

The flat, the top floor of a Victorian house which had seen better days, was cramped and a bit dark and her room was small and cramped too, but she rather liked the view over the chimneypots; it was better than the houses opposite and the sky gave her a feeling of space. She wasted a few minutes now, looking out and thinking about Chifney, where there were only trees and fields, and the chimney-pots, when visible, fitted cosily into the scenery around them. Her room was nicely furnished, though, with bits and pieces her stepbrother had allowed them to take with them when they had left home, and she kept the flat sparklingly clean and somehow managed to have flowers in it.

She brushed her hair and tied it back, so that it hung in a thick shower down her back, re-did her face without much enthusiasm, not seeing her lovely eyes and splendid hair, only the ordinariness of her features, then twitched and pulled her brown tweed skirt and sweater into place. She was heartily sick of them both, but William needed shoes again and the money he had been saving for them he had spent, naturally enough, he conceded, on a wildly expensive waistcoat; she would have to help him out and put off buying a new outfit for herself for just a little longer.

She wandered back to the sitting room, shook up a few cushions and then pottered into the kitchen to see how the macaroni cheese was coming along. When the front door bell rang she banged the oven door shut with a touch of irritation and went to answer it, with a rather cross: ‘You’ve forgotten your key again…’

Only it wasn’t William, it was Professor van Zeust, looming over her in the narrow doorway. She peered round him as far as she could, and quite forgetful of her manners, demanded: ‘Where’s William?’

His bland: ‘Good evening, Miss Partridge,’ reminded her of them.

‘Oh, good evening, Professor. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude—I thought you were William. Have you come to see him? He’s late, I’m afraid, but if you would like to come in and wait?’

He smiled down at her. ‘William has had to fill in for the Casualty Officer. He asked me to tell you that he won’t be home tonight.’

‘Oh.’ She stood uncertainly. ‘Then why—that is…’ She stopped, not quite sure what to say next. After all, he was a consultant, an important man at the hospital and probably even more important in his own country, and she wasn’t sure how she should address a professor off duty.

‘If I might come in?’ His voice was pleasantly friendly.

‘Of course. You—you took me rather by surprise.’ She led the way into the sitting room and he paused on its threshold and looked about him with interest, drawing an appreciative breath as he did so. ‘Toasted cheese?’ he inquired.

‘Supper,’ she told him succinctly, and waved a well kept hand towards a chair, then sat down herself, waiting patiently for him to say whatever it was he had to say.

‘Your brother was kind enough to tell Professor McDonald that you might consider looking after my sister’s children while she is in hospital,’ he began without any beating about the bush, ‘but before I say any more, I should like to know if the suggestion is agreeable to you. I understand from Professor MacDonald that you have a week’s holiday and I feel bound to point out that the job is no sinecure. I had intended applying to an agency for some sort of help, but I should very much prefer that it should be someone whom I know.’

‘But you don’t know me.’

‘You are thought of very highly at St Elmer’s, and I have seen for myself that you don’t flap.’

Beth blinked at him. ‘Are they the sort of children who might make one flap?’ she asked forthrightly.

He burst out laughing. ‘Perhaps, they need firm handling. What do you say?’

She studied him carefully. He was nice; never mind that he was one of the best-looking men she had ever met, never mind the charm of his smile and his deep, quiet voice; he would have been just as nice if he had had a squint and outstanding ears. His hair, she noticed, was grey at the temples and his eyes were very blue. ‘All right,’ she said quietly, ‘I’ll take them on. I’d like to know something about them though, and does your sister want me to live in or go each day?’

‘Oh, if you would live there, I think, and regarding your fee…’ he mentioned a sum which sent her arched brows flying upwards.

‘But that’s heaps too much—four times as much as nannies and people like that get.’

‘But you will have four times as much as that to do.’ He spoke firmly and she had the feeling that if she were to argue he would get annoyed.

‘Very well, thank you.’ She smiled across at him. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

His reply astonished her. ‘I should like to stay to supper,’ he said.

She hadn’t been Miss Partridge of Chifney House for nothing, she hastened to invite him with just the right degree of pleasure and served the simple meal with an aplomb which would have done justice to something far more elaborate. ‘I’m afraid there’s no beer,’ she informed her guest, ‘but there’s orange squash…’

The professor assured her that orange squash was exactly what he would have chosen and when Beth poured him a glass of this innocuous beverage, drank it with every sign of enjoyment, he ate his portion of macaroni cheese with a flattering appetite too, talking gently about this and that, so that she hardly realized that she was answering any number of skilfully put questions. By the time they were drinking their coffee she had told him quite a lot about Chifney as well as revealing, quite unknowingly, a good deal about her stepbrother.

‘You have a pleasant home here,’ remarked the professor, and sounded as though he meant it, ‘and some delightful pieces of furniture.’

‘Aren’t they? Philip allowed us to bring them with us, you know. They don’t quite suit the flat, but we grew up with them.’ She poured more coffee for them both, feeling wonderfully at ease with this large, quiet man. She would have liked to have told him so many things and might have done so if she hadn’t reminded herself with her usual good sense that all good medical men had the power of making one feel at ease and able to talk freely. She frowned, hoping she hadn’t talked too much; perhaps she should change the conversation.

‘You were going to tell me something about your nephews and nieces,’ she prompted him.

‘Ah, yes—but first I think we should wash up.’

‘Wash up? Good heavens, no! I’m sure you’ve never washed up in your life.’

He smiled faintly. ‘I wonder what makes you think that?’ His voice held a note of inquiry and she flushed a little.

‘I didn’t mean to sound rude,’ she assured him, ‘and I can do it later.’

For answer he began to pile the plates tidily and carried them through to the kitchen, and it struck her that he was a man who, once he had made up his mind, didn’t like it changed for him. They washed up together, talking in a casual friendly way which she found very pleasant, then went back to the sitting room, where the professor settled himself in a chair again with the air of one staying for the rest of the evening.

‘About the children,’ he began, ‘the eldest is Dirk, he’s ten, then there is Marineka, who is eight, Hubert, seven and Alberdina, the littlest, who is five. They are normal healthy children, that is to say they are as naughty and disobedient as most children of their ages. On the whole their manners are passable, they don’t sulk and I should say that they have a strong sense of fair play. They adore their mother, who spoils them, and hero-worship their father, an archaeologist of some repute, at present somewhere in Chile leading an expedition of some sort or other. He will be away for several more weeks, and since I had already accepted an invitation from St Elmer’s to give a series of lectures, Martina—my sister—decided that it would be a good idea if they were to come over to England at the same time. The children, by the way, speak tolerable English; they had an English nanny until she left to get married a short time ago.’ He paused to smile. ‘You are still willing to come?’

Beth’s wide mouth turned up its corners in a delightful smile. ‘Oh, yes. When do you want me to start?’

‘I am told that your holiday starts on Sunday.’ He paused to ask if he might light his pipe and Beth sat composedly watching him, saying nothing, and presently he went on: ‘There is a housekeeper and daily help, but they aren’t suitable for the children—besides, they have enough to do. You would have to be with them for most of the day, although I will undertake to have them with me if and when I am there. You are prepared for that?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she assured him. What was curtailed freedom when it meant William’s new shoes and some clothes for herself as well? ‘I’ve days off on Friday and Saturday. I could go along on Friday afternoon if you would like that. Where am I to go?’

He scribbled an address in his pocket book, tore out the page, and handed it to her. ‘Take a taxi,’ he advised her, ‘your expenses will be paid.’

She glanced at the address he had written down and then looked again because his writing was almost illegible. William had been right, it was somewhere close to Harrods—a rented house, presumably—possibly someone he knew; doctors helped each other… She was aware that he had got to his feet and jumped up briskly. ‘It was kind of you to come—I quite thought you had found someone else.’

She smiled as she spoke, but he answered seriously: ‘No—you seemed so suitable, and Professor MacDonald thinks highly of you—I am sure that I could have done no better.’

She found this speech a little damping, so that her good-bye was stiff, but once she had shut the door on his broad back, she whisked to William’s bedroom window which overlooked the street, and looked cautiously out, in time to see him getting into the Citroën. She craned her neck in order to get a better view; he must be very successful if he could afford to run a car costing almost seven thousand pounds, even though it matched his size. It was disconcerting when he looked up and caught her peering down, and waved.

Beth got up early on Friday morning, gave William his breakfast and a list of instructions which she knew very well he wouldn’t attend to, and set about cleaning the flat. William, though willing, was unhandy about the house and it would probably be in a shocking state when she got back, but at least she could leave it in apple pie order. She sighed as she Hoovered; a holiday—a real holiday—would have been super, but she cheered herself up with the promise of the shopping expedition she would have—a new suit, she decided happily while she packed a few things in a case; the despised skirt and sweater, a suede jerkin to wear over them if the days proved cool, a raincoat and a jersey dress; the only decent one she had, leaf green and simple enough for it not to matter that it was a year old at least, slacks, she supposed, and a shirt-blouse. She would wear her suit, a bargain in the January sales, Irish tweed and well cut, and she had her good leather shoes and handbag. She dressed quickly, did her face and hair, picked up her case and went downstairs to telephone for a taxi; it wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where one was easily to be found.

The address which the professor had given her was just off Sloane Square; a quiet cul-de-sac reached by a narrow street and lined on three sides by tall elegant houses. There was an enclosed garden in its centre and it had all the peace of a country village. Very Knightsbridge, thought Beth, paying the driver before picking up her case and ascending the steps of number three.

The door was opened before she could ring the bell. A small, cheerful-faced woman wished her good day and without asking her what her business was, stood aside for her to go in. ‘You’ll be Miss Partridge,’ she declared comfortably, ‘the professor said you’d be arriving about now. If you’ll put your case down someone will bring it to your room presently, miss. I thought you might like to go there straight away and then have a cup of tea. The children are in the park with Nelly, who comes in to help most days; that’ll give you time to look around you. This way, if you please.’

She led the way down the narrow elegant hall to the staircase, curving up from its end wall. Half-way up she paused to get her breath, for she was on the stout side. ‘Your room’s on the second floor, with the children, miss; the professor thought it might be nicer for you as well as easier.’ She beamed kindly at Beth, who smiled back, liking her, before they went on again, across a surprisingly wide landing and up another flight of stairs opening on to a semicircle of thick carpet, lighted by a big bow window and with several doors leading from it. The housekeeper opened the first of these, disclosing a good sized room, furnished tastefully with Regency mahogany and curtained and carpeted in a delicate shade of blue.

‘Oh, charming!’ exclaimed Beth, quite carried away with the idea of having it for her own for a week; it reminded her of her room at Chifney’s, only there were no fields to be seen from its window, only the treetops from the little square in front of the house. She turned to smile again at her companion. ‘You must be the housekeeper—may I know your name?’

‘Mrs Silver, miss. I’ve been housekeeper here for many years now, ever since the professor inherited this house from his grandfather—that was his mother’s father, her being English. He’s not here all that often, not having the time, being such a busy gentleman.’

She turned round as a thin youngish woman appeared in the doorway with Beth’s case. ‘And this is Miss Powers; she comes in daily to help and what a blessing that is, I can tell you.’ She nodded and smiled and went on: ‘And now we’ll leave you to unpack your things, then perhaps you’ll come downstairs when you’re ready, there’ll be a nice tea ready for you. Would ten minutes suit you, miss?’

Beth thanked her and fell to unpacking, a task quickly accomplished so that she had time to tidy her hair and re-do her face and take a closer look at the room. It was really quite beautiful; the professor’s grandfather must have been a man of excellent taste. She looked around her as she made her way downstairs too, and found the same elegance, and promised herself a closer inspection of the pictures hanging on the walls when she had the leisure—if she had any leisure; the professor had warned her that she would have her hands full.

Mrs Silver appeared in the hall as Beth trod the last stair and led the way across the hall and opened a door, inviting her to enter, adding that tea would be brought in a very few minutes. Beth murmured her thanks, wishing to ask if there really was time for her to have tea before the children arrived, but Mrs Silver had already gone, closing the door silently behind her, leaving Beth to look around her.

It was a large, comfortably furnished room, two button-backed sofas flanked the marble fireplace, and there were a variety of easy chairs scattered about, as well as a Sheraton sofa table, a number of lamp tables and a handsome display cabinet against one wall. There were pictures on its panelled walls, too; she began a leisurely tour of them, craning her neck to see those above her head and retracing her steps to take another look at something she had liked. She had reached the fireplace by now and tiptoed to study the portrait above it—bewhiskered old gentleman, smiling a little, with heavy-lidded blue eyes.

‘That’ll be Grandfather,’ Beth told herself aloud. ‘He looks an old poppet—he’s got the same eyes too.’ She turned with a smothered shriek at the chuckle behind her. Deep in the recesses of a porter’s chair, half turned away from the room, sat the professor, watching her.

‘You’re quite right,’ he observed blandly, ‘we do share the same eyes and he was—what was the word?—an old poppet.’ He got up as he spoke and came towards her. ‘Unpardonable of me to remain silent, was it not? But if you had turned this way you would have seen me.’

‘Yes—well I didn’t expect you to be here.’ She was a little indignant.

‘I didn’t expect to be here either, but the last case fell through and it occurred to me that it might be easier for you if I were here to introduce you and the children.’ His kind smile came and went. ‘Do sit down, Miss Partridge. Mrs Silver will be here at any moment with tea—I seldom have the chance to have it at home, and still less to share it with a such a delightful companion.’

Beth frowned horribly, aware that she had gone a bright pink, and he asked in a matter-of-fact way: ‘You do not care for compliments? I assure you that I meant what I said.’

‘Of course I like compliments,’ she spoke a trifle crossly, ‘all girls do, only I never quite believe them. You see, my face…you must have noticed I’m rather plain…’

His heavy lids drooped still further over his eyes and if she had hoped, deep down, that he would disclaim this bald statement, she was to be disappointed, for all he said was: ‘I would have thought that it could be quite an asset in these days, when girls wear their prettiness like a uniform.’

She shook her head. ‘Not for me, though I know what you mean, but there are some quite beautiful girls around.’

‘Ah, beauty is quite a different matter and there aren’t all that number, you know.’

‘There’s a very beautiful girl on the Surgical Block,’ Beth told him. ‘Maureen Brooks, you’re bound to see her while you’re at St Elmer’s—she’s super; black hair and…’

‘She lisps.’

‘Oh, you’ve met her already. Most people think a lisp’s rather nice.’

He looked amused. ‘My dear Miss Partridge, has somebody told you that I am still a bachelor? I assure you that I am very content to be so, and although I am sure that you mean to be helpful, I’m quite able to find myself a wife should I wish for one.’

She went scarlet and jumped out of the chair where she had perched herself. ‘You know very well that I didn’t mean anything of the sort,’ she declared indignantly. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t know you weren’t married, although,’ she added honestly, ‘I thought perhaps you weren’t.’

The professor had got to his feet too, standing so close to her that she was forced to put her head back to see his face. ‘Perhaps I won’t do,’ she stated flatly.

He gave a crack of laughter. ‘Of course you’re going to do—the children will like you, I’m sure of it, and I could think of no one I would rather have to look after them. You’re a nice change from the usual girl, Miss Partridge; it’s pleasant to meet a girl who is different.’

He went back to his chair. ‘And now sit down again, dear girl, here is tea at last, and if it makes you happier we will discuss the weather or some such topic, which will be very dull but should guarantee us not arguing.’

But there was no need for them to talk about anything as mundane; they fell to discussing books and music and a surprisingly large number of other subjects which they found they had in common, although Beth, munching her way daintily through anchovy toast, sandwiches and a rich chocolate cake, noticed that he kept the conversation impersonal; at the end of it she was just as ignorant as to where he lived in Holland and where he worked as she had ever been. Not, she thought vaguely, that that mattered in the slightest, for he would be going back to his own country very shortly, no doubt, and it could be of no consequence to her where he went or what he did.

Tea had been eaten and cleared away before the children arrived back. They came rushing in, all talking at once and in Dutch, making a beeline for their uncle, who sat back in his chair, apparently unworried by their delighted onslaught upon his vast person. It was only after they had talked themselves to a standstill that he said in English: ‘I told you that while your mama was in hospital I would find someone to look after you all. This is Miss Elizabeth Partridge, who will do just that. Say how do you do and shake hands with her, if you please.’

He had told Beth that they were as disobedient as most children, but not at that particular moment they weren’t. They came forward in turn to do as their uncle had bidden them, saying, ‘How do you do?’ and giving their names with almost old-fashioned good manners.

‘How nice to meet you all,’ declared Beth, beaming down at them all, ‘and do you suppose that you might call me Beth? I should much prefer it.’

The professor had got to his feet; now he had done his duty in introducing the children to her, it seemed that he now felt free to go. ‘Why not?’ he agreed placidly. ‘Do whatever Miss Partridge asks of you, my dears. Now I have an evening engagement and will bid you all good night, for you will be asleep by the time I get home. I shall see you tomorrow, no doubt.’

Left alone with the children, Beth sat down again and invited them to tell her about themselves, something they were ready enough to do and which gave her the opportunity to observe them rather more closely. Dirk, the obvious leader of the quartet, was tall for his age, fair-haired and blue-eyed and thin as only boys of ten can be. Marineka, who came next, was blue-eyed and fair-haired too and almost as tall as Dirk, although a good deal plumper, and Hubert was nicely chubby too, with the same ash-blond hair. It was the littlest one, Alberdina, who wasn’t like any of them; she was short and decidedly plump, with large dark eyes and long brown hair. She could be only just five, Beth decided, for she still had a babyish way of sidling close and holding any hand which happened to present itself.

She was holding Beth’s hand now, smiling up at her and saying something in Dutch.

‘You have to speak English, Alberdina,’ Dirk told her, and then explained: ‘We all know how, because we had a nanny, but she’s married now, and Alberdina hasn’t had as much time to learn it as we have.’

‘You all speak English beautifully,’ Beth hastened to assure him. ‘I only wish I could speak Dutch. And now will you tell me what you do now? Have you had your tea? And what do you do before bedtime?’

They all told her, so that it took her a little while to discover that they had their supper at six o’clock and then, starting with Alberdina, they went to bed—Dirk last of all at eight o’clock. ‘Although sometimes I go to bed earlier than that,’ he took pains to tell her, ‘so that I can read, and of course on Saturdays, while we are here with Uncle Alexander, we stay up later.’

‘What fun—why?’

‘We go out with him in the afternoon, to the Zoo or for a ride in his car, and then we have tea somewhere special, and when we come home we play cards. We’re good at cards. You play also?’

‘Well, yes, though I’m not very good, I’m afraid, but I don’t expect…that is, I daresay your uncle would like to have you to himself.’

They all nodded agreement so cheerfully that she felt quite disappointed.

It was evident that they were on their best behaviour; they took Beth over the house, much larger than it looked from the outside, showing her everything, even the cupboards and attics. They would have shown her their mother’s room as well as their uncle’s if she had given them the smallest encouragement. She declined a conducted tour of the kitchen too, merely asking where it was, just in case she should need to go there, though that seemed unlikely because Mrs Silver, stopping for a chat when she came to call the children to their supper, informed her in a kindly way that she was expected to do nothing at all save be with the children. ‘And a great relief that will be to us all, miss, if I might say so—dear little things though they are and quite unnaturally quiet this evening, but that’s because you’re here. It will be nice to be able to get on with our work knowing they’re in good hands.’ With which heartening words, she nodded and smiled and went off to the kitchen.

Supper was in a small room at the back of the house, given up to the children’s use while they were staying there. It was a pleasant place, furnished comfortably and obviously well lived in. Beth, presiding over the supper table, pouring hot chocolate and cutting up Alberdina’s scrambled egg on toast into small pieces, found herself enjoying the children’s company; it was a nice change to talk about fast cars, the dressing of dolls and the star footballers instead of the everlasting shop which was talked at the hospital, and even when she was home, William liked to tell her about his cases; many a meal she had eaten to the accompaniment of a blow-by-blow account of the appendix which had ruptured, the ulcer which had perforated on the way to theatre, the stitching he had been allowed to do…it was pleasant to forget all that and listen to the children’s chatter. To sit at such a table with children such as these, but her own, watching them gobble with healthy appetites, hearing their high, clear voices, would be wonderful, she thought wistfully. She was deep in a daydream when she was roused by Hubert’s asking why her eyes were a different colour from everyone else’s.

‘I don’t really know,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that they’re mauve—everyone has different coloured eyes…’

‘We all have blue eyes,’ said Dirk, ‘not Alberdina, of course, hers are brown, but Mama and Papa have blue eyes too and so has Uncle Alexander.’

‘My doll, Jane, has brown eyes,’ Marineka tossed her fair hair over her shoulder. ‘It is to do with genes,’ she announced importantly.

Beth looked at the little girl with something like awe. She hadn’t known anything about genes until she was in the sixth form of the rather old-fashioned school her father had sent her to, but then of course she hadn’t a doctor for an uncle and her father, moreover, hadn’t held with girls knowing too much. She said hastily, before she became involved in a conversation concerning genetics in which she felt reasonably sure she would make but a poor show: ‘Have you any pets at home?’

It was a successful red herring; there were several cats, all with outlandish Dutch names, and a dog called Rufus, as well as a tame rabbit or so, goldfish in a pond in the garden and a canary, although the latter belonged to someone called Mies whose function in their home was not explained to her. It was an easy step from that for Dirk to describe his uncle’s two dogs, Gem and Mini, black labradors, and when Beth commented on their names, he gave her a sharp look. ‘They’re twins,’ he told her, and waited.

‘Oh, I see—Gemini, the heavenly twins! Very clever of someone to have thought of that.’

Her worth had obviously increased in his eyes. ‘Not many people think of that. Uncle Alexander has a cat too, called Mops and two horses as well as a donkey, and there’s a pond with ducks. We feed them when we go to stay with him.’

It would have been nice to have heard more, but what would be the good? It would only stir up a vague feeling which she supposed was envy. She suggested mildly that it was about time Alberdina went to her bed, and offered to help her take a bath, a suggestion which was received with such a lack of surprise that she concluded that the children were quite in the habit of having someone to look after them; no wonder the professor had been so anxious to find a substitute for their mother.

By half past eight they were tucked up, the two boys sharing a large room next to her own, the little girls across the landing. Beth, a little untidy after her exertions, retired to her room to change her sweater for a blouse and do her hair and face before going downstairs. Mrs Silver had said dinner at half past eight, and she was hungry.

It was lonely, though, after the bustle and noise of the hospital canteen, sitting at the oval table in the quiet dining room, with only Mrs Silver popping in and out with a succession of delicious foods, accompanying each dish with the strong encouragement to eat as much as she could. ‘For I do hear that those hospitals don’t feed their nurses all that well. Stodge, I daresay, miss—I don’t hold with all that starch; here’s a nice little soufflé, as light as a feather even though I do say it myself, you just eat it up.’

She trotted off again, with the advice that she would bring coffee to the sitting room in ten minutes’ time, and left Beth to eat up the soufflé and then dash upstairs to make sure that all the children were asleep. They were; she went down to the sitting room and drank her coffee, and then, feeling guiltily idle, went to examine the book shelves which filled one wall. Early bed, she decided, and a book; there was a splendid selection for her to choose from.

She was trying to decide between the newest Alistair Maclean and Ira Morris’s Troika Belle, which she had read several times already, when she heard steps in the hall and turned, a book in each hand, as the door opened and the professor came in.

He looked magnificent; a black tie did something for a man—it certainly did something for him. Not that he needed it, for he had the kind of looks which could get away with an old sweater and shapeless slacks, though Beth very much doubted if he ever allowed himself to be seen in such gear.

‘Presumably the sight of me has rendered you speechless,’ he commented dryly. ‘I’ve wished you good evening twice and all I get is a blank purple stare.’

She put the books down and came into the centre of the room. ‘I’m sorry…I was thinking. Is this your special room? Would you like me to go?’

‘My dear good girl, of course not. My study is at the back of the hall—out of bounds to the children, but consider yourself invited to make use of it whenever you wish—only don’t touch my desk.’

She smiled widely. ‘Is it a mess? Doctors seem to like them that way. I was going up to bed, actually. The children have been splendid—and how good they are at their English, even Alberdina.’ She made her way to the door. ‘I rather think they wake early in the morning and I want to be ready for them.’

He had taken up a position before the empty fireplace, his eyes on her face. ‘I’ve some messages from Martina about the children, could you sit down for a minute while I pass them on?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She perched on the edge of a large chair and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I hope Mevrouw Thorbecke is getting on well?’

‘Excellently.’ He pressed the old-fashioned bell by the fireplace and took a chair opposite hers. ‘I’ve been to a very dull dinner party, do you mind if I have some coffee and something to eat?’ He broke off as Mrs Silver came into the room.

They were obviously on the best of terms, for she clucked at him in a motherly fashion and burst at once into speech. ‘There, Professor, didn’t I know it—you were given a bad dinner and now you’re famished,’ and when he admitted that this was so: ‘You just sit there and I’ll bring you some coffee and sandwiches. I daresay Miss Partridge could drink another cup and keep you company.’

‘Of course,’ he said, before Beth could get her mouth open; Mrs Silver had gone by the time she managed: ‘I had coffee after dinner, thank you.’

‘You would prefer something else?’ His voice was blandly charming.

‘No, thanks.’ She spoke firmly and wondered how it was that ten minutes later she was sitting there with a cup of coffee in her hand, and moreover, eating a sandwich. She was still there an hour later; she had forgotten that her companion was someone who, in the ordinary way, she would have addressed as sir, taken his word for law in theatre, and if she had encountered him outside their working sphere, wished him a sedate time of day and nothing more; she only knew that she was content to sit in his company, listening to his mild nothings and replying in kind. The handsome ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chiming the hour recalled her to the astonishing fact that it was midnight.

‘Heavens, I never meant to stay as long as this,’ she exclaimed, aware of regret as she jumped to her feet and made for the door. The professor had got to his feet too and with his hand on the door she stopped short.

‘The messages,’ she exclaimed again, ‘you had some messages for me.’

He opened the door. ‘I am ashamed to say that I have forgotten every one of them—they couldn’t have been of much importance, could they? Your room is comfortable? You have everything you want?’

She told him yes, feeling a little uneasy about the messages, but there seemed nothing she could do about them now, so she wished him a good night and went to her room, where later, and still very wide awake, she thought about the evening, telling herself at the same time that it was only because she had been feeling lonely that she had found his company so very pleasant.

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