' she drew a deep breath.

"You do want me back, Sarre?

' His smooth: "That's entirely up to you, Alethea," didn't rea.s.sure her

in the least.

All the fight went out of her in the face of his bland impa.s.sive

ness.

"T'll telephone Granny," she said.

He glanced at her.

"Yes, do, my dear.

I got tickets for the day after tomorrow, but if that doesn't suit you,

I'll get them changed.

' What did it matter when she went?

He didn't want her in his home; she had thought just lately that he liked her a little, not just as the other half of a friendly arrangement between them, but as a girl.

She must have been wrong.

Perhaps it was Anna after all; if it was she wouldn't be able to bear it.

They finished their lunch, talking about nothing that mattered, and she saw him out of the house as she always did when she was home and went back to the sitting room to think.

She would have to discover some way of staying; she had no idea what, but she had two days in which to do it.

The two days came and went.

Alethea had tried several times to talk to Sarre, but somehow he had no time; the telephone rang or he was on the point of going out or he had urgent work to do.

She saw him off to the hospital on the day of her departure, still without having a chance to talk.

But he would be home for lunch; she knew that, it wasn't operating day and he had an outpatients clinic in the afternoon.

She would see him at lunch.

She had planned it carefully; the children were going to a friend's at midday, so she would have him to herself.

She answered their anxious questions as to just when she would be coming back with a cheerfulness which wholly deceived them, begged them to be good children and do as Nanny told them and not to annoy their papa, and kissed them with a secret sorrow that it might be a long time, perhaps never, before she saw them again.

She stood on the steps waving them goodbye on their way to school.

Perhaps she was being gloomy.

Sarre might let her talk; if it was Anna, then she could tell him that she wouldn't interfere.

She rehea.r.s.ed what she was going to say as she did her last-minute packing, had a talk with Mrs McCrea and Nanny and then went into the garden.

She was arranging the flowers she had picked when Al came to her with a message from Sarre to say that he wouldn't be able to get home to lunch

after all, that Al would take her to the station in his stead, and that he hoped she would have a good holiday.

Alethea stood with the scissors in her hand, staring at him.

"But he can't!

' she cried.

"Al, are you sure that's what he said?

' Al nodded.

"Ho, yus, ma'am.

' He eyed her knowingly.

"It ain't ter your liking, neither, eh?

' She put the scissors down carefully, rammed the flowers in an untidy

bunch into a priceless Sevres vase and took off her gardening gloves.

"No, Al, it isn't quite.

I'm a bit disappointed.

' She turned her back to pick up a dropped flower and when he asked if

she would have her lunch on a tray in the sitting room she said yes,

that would do, thank you, and waited until he had gone before she

turned round.

She was so unhappy that she was past tears.

Sarre could have telephoned, not sent that cold, polite message.

He hadn't wanted the embarra.s.sment of saying goodbye, she supposed, or

to give her the chance of talking to him.

She looked at her bruised arms and wondered how he could have been so

gentle with her when he treated them, if he was so utterly indifferent to her. He was a kind man; perhaps he thought it kinder to let her go without seeing her again.

She wandered out into the garden again.

What had she said or done in the last few days to make him so determined to send her away?

She had thought he would have been pleased to see how happy the children were with her; she had never said a word to him about them, or about Nanny, but he must have noticed how the children had changed towards her.

She wasn't going to be able to bear it any longer.

Half way up the staircase she stopped to look up at one of Sarre's ancestors, a handsome man who must have had the girls eating out of his hand.

"T shan't come back," she told him.

And she meant it.

She made a pretence of eating the lunch Al served so carefully and then because it was time to go, she went upstairs to put on the jacket of her new outfit, a charming skirt and blouse in honey-coloured crepe-de-chi ne not in the least suitable for travelling.

She had changed it at the last moment, because she had made up her mind to see Sarre before she caught the train and she wanted to look her best.

She went to the dining room next and poured herself a gla.s.s of brandy; she loathed the stuff, but she needed something to make her brave enough to tell him that she wasn't coming back, and more than that, that she loved him and that was why.

She felt a little peculiar as she got into the car.

Everyone had crowded into the hall to say goodbye and hope that she would be back soon, and she had time to beg Nanny to look after the children and to tell Mrs McCrea to make an extra large cake for the weekend.

And once in the car, beside Al, she told him to go to the clinic first.

"T'll be very quick, only a few minutes," she explained.

"There's something I want to tell.

that is.

' "Cor, lummy, ma'am, your don't 'ave to explain, I ain't that feeble in the 'ead.

The guv ain't 'alf lucky, 'having your ter love 'im.

' Which left her speechless.

The forecourt of the clinic was crowded.

Alethea asked Al to let her out at the entrance before finding a

parking s.p.a.ce and hurried in through the swing doors.

The outpatients' department was full but not as full as all that.

Surely Sarre would be able to spare her a few minutes; besides.

Doctor Jaldert was there too.

She crossed the tiled floor to the desk.

The nurse on duty there was a stranger to her and when she asked to see