SECRET HEIRESS

Eleanor Farnes

Fiona Chard was a nice girl, a very attractive girl - but she was also very rich. Which was why her father had his doubts about her love for Guy, who wanted to marry her, and about Guy's love for her - and why he had challenged her to move outside her own small, exclusive circle and get a proper job for at least three months before she committed herself to marriage. And so Fiona found herself working for Peter Webber, who she soon realised was more attractive than Guy in every way - but who didn't know who she really was. Would her father's experiment be successful, or would it only bring her unhappiness?

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN the dance at Ingleden House, given to celebrate the engagement of his daughter Elspeth, was in full swing, and John Chard felt that his wife no longer needed his support, he slipped away to the quiet of his study; and then, tempted out by the softness of the spring night, settled down to smoke a cigar on the familiar oak bench of his own veranda.

The music still reached him in this shadowed corner of the veranda, muted by distance. It was quiet and peaceful, and Mr. Chard was not too pleased when footsteps sounded on the gravel of the garden path, and a man appeared, a dark form as yet unrecognised in the starlit night, and mounted the steps of the veranda, to stand with his back to the house, lighting a cigarette.

The flare from the lighter revealed him to be Guy Pendleton —Guy, who had danced attendance this evening on Mr. Chard's youngest daughter, Fiona, in a way that could only be called conspicuous. Mr. Chard was formulating something polite to say to this young man, when he heard his study door suddenly open and close, and next moment, with a rustling of skirts and a waft of delicate perfume, a girl in a light dress was on the veranda too, and she and Guy were close in each other's arms, kissing long and ardently.

Was this an opportune moment to emerge from his deeply-shadowed corner? wondered Mr. Chard, considerably taken aback. And while he hesitated, the two young people drew slowly and reluctantly apart "Oh, Fiona, Fiona," said Guy. "I've been wanting to do . that all the evening."

Fiona did not reply, but held out both her hands to him. Mr. Chard, whose eyes were now accustomed to the starlit night, realised that she went willingly when Guy gathered her again into his arms.

"You look so lovely this evening," whispered Guy. "Much lovelier than Elspeth. I've been thinking all the time that it ought to be your evening—yours and mine, instead of Elspeth's and George's."

"Guy!" she exclaimed, surprised, for it was the first time that a hint of such serious intentions on his part had reached her.

"I don't know why you should sound so surprised," he said. "You must have known for a long time that I worship the ground that you walk on."

"Guy darling," she protested, "you know that you would never worship the ground that anybody walked on. It's a figure of speech that doesn't suit you at all."

"I am serious," he said quietly.

She stood silent for a few moments in his arms before she said, as quietly as he :

"I believe you are."

"I love you, Fiona," he said.

She drew back a little to look at him. They faced each other, her hands held closely in his, and only the brilliant stars in the night sky illuminated them faintly for each other.

"And you, Fiona? What about you?" he asked urgently. "What do you feel about me?"

"I'm not sure," she said, hesitating, doubtful. "I am terribly fond of you, Guy."

"More than that, Fiona. I'm sure it's more than that. We fit each other so well, get on splendidly always."

"I know," she said thoughtfully, "but that doesn't mean 1 love you."

He gathered her into his arms again.

"But you like us to be together like this, Fiona."

"Yes," she said on a sigh.

"And this, too?" He kissed her long and deeply, and they were one mingled shadow among the shadows of the veranda in the starlit night. And then Guy raised his head and said, in a suddenly masterful voice:

"Of course you love me, Fiona. Will you marry me?"

"Oh dear," said Fiona. "What has come over us tonight, Guy? I think it's just that engagements are in the air."

"Nonsense," he said. "I've known perfectly well how I felt about you for a long time. Fiona, be engaged to me. I'm certain we would make a tremendous success of it Say you will, love, say you will."

"I can't say I will, just like that. I must have a little time to think about it, Guy."

His hand stroked her cheek, caressed her neck and soft shoulder.

"What do you need time for?" he asked softly. "I love you and you love me."

"But I'm not sure that I do," she said. "After all, it's a very important thing, Guy. Let me think about it."

Four people came round the corner of the house and along the garden path towards them, talking and laughing.

"We must go back," said Fiona softly. "We needn't meet them—we can go through Father's study." She stretched out her arm, slim in the starlight, sparkling with the diamond bracelet her great-aunt had left to her, and Guy took her hand and they disappeared through the french window of the study.

John Chard took a deep breath and rose to his feet. When the four people had passed him, he went into his study, closed the window, switched on the lights, drew the curtains across the windows, and sat down in the chair before his desk to think. And he had received plenty of food for thought. Guy Pendleton and Fiona.

He had not had the slightest intention of eavesdropping. He had missed the moment when he might have made his presence known, and become a prisoner on his own veranda. And, as was traditionally said of eavesdroppers, however unwillingly they did it, he had heard nothing pleasant to him. Nothing pleasant? Was it unpleasant, then, he asked himself, to learn that a young man could be so devoted to Fiona? And he had to admit to himself that he was aware of a feeling of disappointment and a faint depression.

To begin with, he resented this young man's passionate intensity where Ms daughter was concerned, but that could possibly be discounted as any father's reaction on witnessing such a scene, and he had to admit that Fiona had certainly not resented it. She had flown into his arms as if she were already perfectly at home there, and had done more than merely submit to his kisses . . . Mr. Chard drew his thoughts away from the scene on the veranda to concentrate on what he knew about Pendleton.

He was a tall, handsome, fair-haired fellow, well versed in the social graces. About twenty-six, perhaps twenty-eight, and doing some sort of job that kept him in the City until five o'clock each day, but what it was, Mr. Chard had no idea. He drove himself about in an old but very rakish sports car, and he danced well, played tennis well, had a

good deal of charm, and sang soft love songs to his own guitar; so that he was always in demand and people seemed to like him. Then why should there be this feeling of disappointment that Fiona should be considering him as a future husband?

After a good deal of thought, Mr. Chard decided that he had always hoped for something better for Fiona, for somebody altogether more outstanding, more brilliant, more magnificent. And this was hard luck on Guy, who might be the pleasantest fellow in creation. Fiona, too, was the one to be married, and if she loved Guy, then she would have to have Guy—but she had seemed very uncertain, and her father felt he would like her to see more of the world and meet more people before deciding.

He had always wanted a son, and as his business prospered and went from strength to strength, he had wanted, more than ever, a son who would grow up to work with him, to share his aspirations and success. He had had, however, two daughters. Elspeth had never cared for anything outside the social and domestic routine, and on leaving school at eighteen had been content to do an undemanding job in a smart flower shop, to visit friends and to idle her way through life in a fashion her father could only deplore. But Fiona had always been different, interested in a wide variety of subjects, and all kinds and conditions of people. She had not been content, on leaving her fashionable school, to idle away the days. First, there had been an intensive course of languages, and then a stiff secretarial course, since then she had opted for charity work, helping various charitable committees by acting as secretary, seeing to their correspondence, and helping to organise their functions. It was still not like a full-time job, thought her father, and left her far too much time to cultivate the acquaintance of young men such as Guy and George and all her other friends.

Well, he would talk to her in the morning. Persuade her to wait—at least until she had known Guy longer. Nothing would be lost by waiting—and perhaps something might be gained.

Quite unconscious that her very private conversation with Guy had been overheard by her father, Fiona breakfasted with Elspeth next morning in a blithe and happy mood. Mrs. Chard had had her tray taken to her room, so the two girls conducted a lively post-mortem on the dance until Helga, the au pair, came in with a message that her father would like to see Fiona in the study.

"Must finish my coffee first," said Fiona. "Father's late this morning, isn't he, leaving for the office? I wonder what he wants."

"Overspent your allowance?"

"No. Quite comfortably inside it. I believe I have a fairly clear conscience."

Fortified by that belief, she went to see her father with a bright smile and a good morning kiss, and perched on the corner of his desk, waiting for him to speak. There had always been a strong bond of affection between these two, and he regarded her with pleasure for a few seconds before he began, in roundabout fashion, to broach what was on his mind.

"Well," he asked, "did you enjoy the dance last night?"

"Yes, it was a wonderful party. Everybody said so."

"So it ought to be—the money it cost me.".

"Old skinflint," she said, smiling affectionately at him. "And you ought to know that money doesn't make a party. I can tell you I've been at some expensive flops."

"Well, I'm glad it's over, and the house and family can get back to normal again."

She watched him with bright eyes.

"You didn't bring me here, Dad, for a chatty resume of last night's party, I'm sure."

"No, I didn't. I wanted to let you know that I was an unwilling observer of a touching scene on my veranda last night."

Fiona blushed scarlet. Oddly, that blush pleased him, and he considerately looked away until she had recovered herself. She said, attempting lightness:

"How disgusting of you, Dad."

"I said an unwilling observer, Fiona. I had no option. When Pendleton arrived, I kept quiet, hoping he would go away again. I could have no idea that you were going to fly into his arms the next minute."

"I do think, Dad, you might have revealed yourself!"

"I very nearly did. I didn't know which was the least embarrassing—to disturb you both, or let you go away."

"Well -" said Fiona, thoughtfully; and then, on a rising note: "Well?"

"Well, I thought you might like to tell me what's going on."

"I should think you heard that."

"Tell me what you feel about this young man, Fiona."

Fiona sat in thought, perched there on the corner of his desk, looking so attractive in her green tweed dress that her father thought Guy could hardly be blamed for wanting to pin her down.

"Well, of course," said Fiona, "he's handsome and accomplished and I like him very much."

"That was obvious, if I may say so. It also appears that the young man is serious in his intentions."

"Yes. He loves me and I love him."

"You weren't so sure of your feelings last night, Fiona."

"I was taken by surprise last night. But he wants me to marry him."

"And what do you feel about that?"

"To be honest, Dad, I hadn't really intended to get married for years yet. But Guy is an impetuous sort of person. I don't see him waiting years."

"Marriage isn't a thing to be impetuous about, you know. If you're wise, Fiona, you'll wait. Anything that's for life deserves waiting until you're quite sure. And if you do love each other, it still won't spoil by waiting a little while."

"You sound," she said slowly, "as if you don't approve."

He put a reassuring hand on her knee.

"It isn't, Fiona, that I don't approve, though I should like to know a good deal more about Pendleton before I handed my daughter over to him; but I would like you to wait. I would like you to know more of the world and have more experience before you tie yourself up for life. I used to hope great things of you at one time, Fiona. Even

at those expensive boarding schools, they thought you ought to go to college. I was delighted when you took up languages, and .then that secretarial course. But what happened to it all? It came down to running about for committees got up to help good causes; to organise a few charitable fetes -"

"Well, what do you want me to do?" asked Fiona. "Slog in an office every day from nine till five, taking a job from somebody who needs it?"

"You'd never hold down a proper job," said her father, wilfully mixing a little malice with his statement.

"What?" said Fiona, protestingly.

"I said you'd never hold down a job, and it's true. You'd give it up as soon as something about it annoyed you. You've led too sheltered a life, Fiona, everything done for you, provided for you, nothing uncongenial to put up with -"

Fiona was annoyed, as he had meant her to be annoyed.

"Parents all over," she sighed. "They bring you up in a certain way, and then reproach you for growing up according to plan. And I think you're most unjust. I don't like to think you see me as so capricious and unreliable. After all, I didn't give up the refugee job, it gave me up, because its work there was finished. I bet I would hold down a job -"

"All right, I take your bet," said her father quietly, his keen eyes steady on her face.

Fiona laughed.

"You don't mean it," she said.

"I do mean it. You get a job and hold it down for three months to everybody's satisfaction; and if at the end of that time you still want to marry Guy Pendleton, I'll think about it seriously."

"But I'm rusty and out of practice," said Fiona, still a little bewildered by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. "It isn't fair to expect me to get a jab now."

"You can brush up in my office," said her father. "I'll put you in with old Wilmot, who has known you since you were in the cradle, and when you think you're ready, I'll help you to get a job." He smiled up into her thoughtful face. "Fiona, this isn't a whim. You're an intelligent girl, and there are lots of interesting people in the world for you to meet. I wouldn't want you to feel, when it was too late, that you wished you had spread your wings a bit while you still could. I don't want you to throw yourself away on the first good-looking guitar player to tell you he loves you."

"I don't know why you're so down on Guy, Dad."

"I'm not down on him, my dear; perhaps as I get to know him, I'll like him and approve of him. What does he do for a living, Fiona?"

"Something in the City -1 don't know exactly what."

"Well, that can cover a good deal, can't it? Has it occurred to you, Fiona, that he might see you as the daughter of a wealthy man?"

"Oh, Father, really, you're preoccupied with your own money. You give everybody mean motives."

"A lot of people have them, my dear."

"How life must be poisoned for you."

He smiled at her.

"You help to sweeten it for me," he said. "Perhaps I misjudge him. He'll wait three months for you if he loves you— he'll even admire you for what you're doing."

"I haven't said yet that I'm going to do it, Dad."

"But you will, I'm sure. Now I must get off to my office." He rose, a big burly man, and stood smiling down at her. He put an affectionate hand on her shoulder. "Though I'm not sure," he said, "that I won't be doing industry irreparable mischief by letting you loose upon it."

"That," said Fiona, walking with him to the door, "could mean that you doubt my capabilities. Or it could mean that you think my charms will have a devastating effect I wonder which you meant?"

"I wonder," said her father.

For six weeks, Fiona "brushed up" her shorthand and typing in one of her father's offices, and learned a good deal about office procedure. Mr. Wilmot found her, useful, charming and tactful, and at the end of the six weeks he said he would be sorry to lose her, and invited her to stay on to work for him; but this was not Fiona's idea, nor did she think it was her father's. Here, everybody knew who she was. Some people cultivated her acquaintance because she was the big chief's daughter; others avoided her for precisely the same reason; and anybody who felt a genuine friendliness towards her might well be deterred from showing it. So Fiona decided to move on, and her father, true to his promise, said he would help her to find another job.

Guy did not approve of this latest move, but he realised that her father's challenge had roused Fiona's pride and that she meant to prove her capabilities to him. Guy would have preferred a Fiona

waiting for him at Ingleden House, in the heart of the country, safe in the social circle of people she already knew, free of the risk of meeting many new ones. He pleaded with her to be secretly engaged to him, but this she would not do. As they walked in the gardens after dinner one evening, his arm about her, slowly in step, he said:

"It seems hard luck on you, darling, that our engagement should depend on your proving something. Your father should have given me some test, not you."

"I think all he really wants," said Fiona, "is to keep us from doing anything in a rush. He wants me to have time to be sure. He wants me to get out and meet different people."

"Aren't you sure?" asked Guy, stopping her in their walk to hold her in his arms and to kiss her. "I'm sure."

"I don't think I'm as sure as that," said Fiona seriously.

"Then I'll make you sure. I'm absolutely certain you're the girl for me; and at the end of three months you'll feel the same. Don't you dare, Fiona, to meet anybody you like even half as much."

"Is it likely," she said, "that I shall meet anybody half as charming, or half as good-looking or altogether sweet to -"

The rest of her sentence was lost under his kiss, and they swayed blissfully together in the soft darkness of the garden.

In the airy, modern office block of a big and important engineering firm, Peter Webber sat in his own office on a bright summer morning, in a state of annoyance—reasonable and justifiable annoyance. For the managing director had produced a favoured applicant for the job of Peter's secretary, when his own choice had been made, and the woman practically engaged. Of all the people who had applied for this job, only this one had struck him as

completely suitable: slim, trim, an efficient person, tactful and sensible. Emotional entanglements, all too sadly frequent in such a large office block, would not have reared their ugly heads where she was concerned, and she had seemed genuinely interested in the work. He had, in fact, been looking forward to working with her; and now, before he had definitely engaged her, here was the managing director producing somebody for the job, and making it very difficult for Peter to refuse.

There had already been some heart-burning in the office over this position. As soon as Diana Cray left, three secretaries already in the building had applied for it, to the understandable annoyance of their own chiefs; so that Peter had felt impelled - to get a girl from outside. As Personnel Manager, Peter realised that it would never do to choose one of those three, yet getting a girl from outside meant breaking her in to all his ways, and for that he would have preferred a girl of his own choosing to one foisted on him by the managing director.

She was due to arrive for an interview this morning. That, in itself, was inconvenient, for Peter had his morning pretty well tied up: appointments with the office manager; the chairman of the sports committee, and then Smithson from the machine shop, who was having some sort of housing problem which threatened to make him throw up his job—and he was too good a worker to lose if a little help would keep him. Well, the girl would have to be fitted in somehow—perhaps after the talk with the office manager.

The door opened, and a dark-haired girl looked into the office.

"Good morning, Peter."

"Oh, good morning, Sheila."

"I can't stop—my old man is on the warpath. I just had to know if you've got your secretary yet."

"Not yet," said Peter. "Somebody coming for an interview this morning."

"What, not having the little schoolmarmy one?" Sheila came into the room and closed the office door behind her. "I must hear about this. I thought it was all settled."

Peter rose politely to his feet. It was one of the things Sheila liked so much about him, his invariable courtesy. Such courtesy was by no means general in the office. '

"It was practically settled," said Peter. "I'd like to have her, but now K. J. has produced somebody for the job. She's due to see me this morning, and quite sure to be unsuitable."

"Well, if she's really unsuitable, you'll be able to refuse her," said Sheila. "Don't look so gloomy about it. You, should have had me—I would have suited you perfectly."

"Then it would have been war to the death with Ormesby, who couldn't bear to lose you to me. By the way, you said he was on the warpath this morning."

"Yes, so he is. I must fly, but I shall look for you at lunch, Peter, so that you can tell me all about K.J.'s pet. I should stick to the nice little schoolmarmy one if I were you."

She gave him a flashing smile, and went back to her work. She was a vivid and colourful figure, Miss Sheila Pont, secretary to one of the important department heads, and Peter knew that she was a hard worker, too, but she lacked that very quality of impersonality for which Peter was hoping and searching.

That would be one advantage of having a girl from outside, a complete stranger: there would be no established basis of friendliness, on which personalities could grow. He would begin as he meant to go on.

He went to see the office manager and they cleared up a number of problems, when Peter remembered that the applicant for the secretary's job should have arrived, and took himself back to his office.

A young woman was sitting there waiting for him. Peter, whose job was personnel, was accustomed to taking in a good deal with one glance, and during the few opening remarks that he exchanged with Miss Chard, he observed plenty. She had dark hair that waved very slightly, direct grey eyes that looked openly at him, and a very beautiful complexion. Her suit was of a light, oatmealish colour, and she had tan shoes, gloves and handbag. All very neat—nothing obtrusive: yet, in some indefinable way, the whole outfit was too expensive-looking. Was it actually the outfit that was expensive, or the girl herself who gave an air to these deceptively simple clothes? There was not a piece of jewellery about her. She was completely correct —and yet . . . Somehow, she did not fit. Also, she did not look in the least conducive to that atmosphere of impersonal hard work which was, at .that moment, Peter's goal. It occurred to him, fleetingly, that Sheila and some others would not at all care for Miss Chard in his office, and would, doubtless, prefer the "schoolmarm." Well, he thought optimistically, perhaps her qualifications will not be good enough.

"You are Miss Chard?" he said, seating himself behind his desk.

"Yes," she said, smiling at him, and that smile registered at once. It was hallmarked for frankness and charm, but he did not return it.

"I've had a talk about you with Mr. Jackson, our managing director. He recommends you very warmly for the job of my secretary, but I do feel I should let you know that my choice was already made."

"Oh." Fiona was taken aback. "I'm sorry. In that case, there was no need for me to come. I understood that it was still open."

"I haven't actually confirmed the appointment," Peter admitted, "and naturally, the managing director's wishes count for a lot, but other things have to be equal."

"You mean—qualifications?" asked Fiona.

"Yes."

So they went into the question of Fiona's qualifications, and Peter could find no good reason there for refusing to engage her. But he pounced at once upon her experience with the Chard Engineering Company.

"Chard," he said. "Any relationship?"

Fiona hesitated. She did not want to be known as the daughter of the wealthy chief of the Chard company: she did not want to start under a handicap of that kind here. Yet she could not start with a lie. So she hesitated, and then, with an air of belittling whatever relationship there might be, she said:

"Well—yes. There is a relationship -" and gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, shrugging it off; and, fortunately, he took it in the way she hoped he would, and thought it too slight a relationship to base any claims on. -

"Why did you leave them?" he asked bluntly.

"Well, although Mr. Chard had made it abundantly clear that I would receive no favours in his firm, there were people there who thought otherwise. There were various difficulties, and I wanted to get on on my own merits, and so I decided to move on."

"I see," said Peter, who really did see, because he was proud of haying got where he was entirely on his own merits. He sat back and thought, in frowning absorption, and Fiona thought it became more obvious every moment that he did not want her, yet felt himself tied by the wishes of the managing director. Her own pride rebelled at being engaged for such a reason, yet just as she had been unable to refuse the challenge made by her father, so now she found a challenge in this that she would not refuse. If she got the job, she would make good in it. "Well, I'll think about it, Miss Chard," he said, "and let you know."

It was dismissal. Fiona rose, a slim, elegant figure.

"Thank you, Mr. Webber." She stretched out her hand, with a slightly tentative smile, and he shook it briefly. He walked to the door with her, to open it, and she paused, looking up at him.

"Will I hear from you fairly soon?" she asked.

He was struck by a fresh thought.

"Do you need a job soon?" he asked.

"Yes, I do," she replied frankly; and only afterwards did she realise that her reply might have been misleading; for she needed a job only to prove to her father and herself that she was capable of holding, one, and not, as Peter Webber might have thought, to provide her with the material means of keeping body and soul together.

"I'll let you know quite soon," he said, and when she had gone he wondered why he had delayed. He supposed he would have to have

the girl. Most of the other men in the building would have jumped at the chance, he knew. She was attractive, well dressed and intelligent, and it was possible that she would do the work as well as the little schoolmarm; but Peter was Personnel Manager, and he knew only too well the kind of problems that appeared among personnel. Very often, sex had been discovered at the bottom of all sorts of disquieting problems with which he had to cope. Especially recently, he had had a surfeit of it. He could do without it very well in his own office.

Well, now for his appointment with the sports committee chairman. He sorted out the papers he would need, and rose to his feet, a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a face inclined to gravity; a man absorbed in his work and never fully aware of the impact of his personality upon others. Already, concentrating on the coming interview with the sports committee chairman, he had completely put Fiona Chard out of his mind.

CHAPTER TWO

FIONA returned to Ingleden House, on the day of her interview with Peter Webber, at half past six in the evening, and found her mother and sister entertaining George and Guy on the terrace. A small table held an assortment of bottles and a tray of glasses, and George was dispensing refreshment when Fiona arrived.

"Fiona," said her mother, "we wondered what had happened to you. We expected you back before this."

"I passed right by Janey Morgan's house after lunch, and decided to stop and see her. Her children are absolutely beautiful now, I had to stop and play with them; and then she made me help her weed the herbaceous border, so you see how the afternoon disappeared." She held out a hand to Guy in passing, and he kissed it She flashed a smile at him, and turned to accept her sherry from George.

"Well, we're all anxious to know if you got the job," said Elspeth. "Do tell."

"I don't know," said Fiona. "Mr. Webber is going to let me know soon. I have an idea I won't get it. I gather that his choice was already made, and then the managing director produced me; which must be rather maddening for him if he wants somebody else."

"He'll probably have to do what the managing director wants," said Guy.

"I hope he does, because I think I should like the job—it sounds interesting."

"What was he like?" asked Elspeth.

Fiona reflected for a moment or two.

"Tall, dark, and handsome," she began.

"No," protested Elspeth.

"I hope not," said Guy.

"Yes. Definitely tall, dark and handsome; and a bit forbidding. Wrapped up in his work, I should think—and perhaps could be impatient with anybody who gets in the way of it."

"Sounds fun," commented Elspeth. "Definite possibilities. I'd like a job like that."

"You" said Fiona, "wouldn't like any sort of job. You're just bone lazy."

Elspeth laughed.

"I intend to alter all that," said George. "She's going to find a lot to do when she marries me. She has no idea at the moment just how much work is entailed in running an old estate."

"That's different," said Elspeth. "I shall like helping with that, but I should hate working in a dingy office. Besides, Fiona is only taking a job that somebody else needs."

"That's the most transparent reasoning," said Fiona, "and you know it. Anyhow, Dad's stipulation was only that I should hold the job for three months. Perhaps at the end of that time, I shall be marrying Guy."

"Why say perhaps?" asked Guy, turning his head to look searchingly at her. "I don't allow that perhaps."

She smiled at him without answering, but went to sit in the chair next to his; and as the others had started to talk about something

else, she sank back, sipping her sherry, relaxing in the peaceful atmosphere of the garden.

"Staying to dinner?" she asked Guy lazily.

"If I may."

"Of course. Is George staying?"

"I think so."

"We're quite a family nowadays. It's rather nice. What sort of day did you have?"

"Exactly the same as all the other days. I'm a creature of routine, Fiona, and it's deadly dull at times. I bear it with equanimity because you're at the back of my mind, because I know when five o'clock comes, I can get in my car and scorch out of London just as fast as rush-hour traffic lets anybody scorch, and reach the blessed tranquillity of this garden soon after six o'clock, and be sure of a welcome on this terrace, or in your drawing-room. You've no idea what you—and this place—mean to me."

"Perhaps I shall have a better idea when I'm working at my new job—if Mr. Webber decides to have me. Then I shall feel about this place perhaps as you do."

"It's different for you, it's your home. For me, if s the setting for you—but not complete without you. I felt it when you came in just now. It was pleasant before, but you completed it. The jewel in the setting."

"Darling, I had no idea you were so romantic!"

"You have still a lot to learn about me."

"That sounds interesting," she said, smiling into his eyes.

"Come for a walk in the garden," he said softly. "I want to kiss you."

"After dinner," she promised. "I'm so relaxed and contented here, and I really did pull thousands of weeds out of Janey's border this afternoon."

"All right. After dinner. It's a date, Fiona."

Mr. Chard arrived home then, and joined the family on the terrace for a drink; and later, they all gathered about the table in the Hepplewhite dining-room for dinner. Fiona told him about her day, and then the conversation became general, but Mr. Chard did not take a very active part in it. It had occurred to him, as he sat at the head of the table and studied the people round it, that, with Elspeth married to George, and if Fiona married Guy, this set of six people might well, in the future, be closely knit into one family. He saw a faint and distant vision of Christmases in this house, with the children of his two daughters—his own grandchildren—filling it, and the notion was strange to him. He looked at the two young men with a renewal of interest.

He liked George Maldon. He was a young man who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and was the heir to an old estate; but he worked very hard on that estate, his eyes wide open to the enormous death duties that would have to be paid before it became his. He had common sense and would, perhaps, knock some of the nonsense out of Elspeth in due course. So John Chard could bear the thought of George as a son-in-law without disapproval.

He looked on round the table at Guy. Guy was talking to Mrs. Chard, and there was no denying that he was a handsome and charming fellow. No denying, either, that there was the customary reluctance on his own part to accept Guy as a suitor for Fiona. "And

that, no doubt," he thought, "is because I'm a damned selfish old chap and have always wanted as a son-in-law a man who could come into my business, and be the key man I'm looking for, and take over gradually as I get older, and still keep the concern a family one. But Fiona, obviously, isn't going to marry just to supply me with the sort of business partner I want, and I might as well resign myself to the fact."

Since, soon after dinner, Fiona and Guy disappeared into the garden, only too anxious to get away from the others and be alone, he told himself he was right. And he had no doubt at all as to why they had gone into the garden. After that scene on the veranda, he imagined that they would scarcely be in the twilight of the shrubbery before they would be in each other's arms. And heaven knew he was not so very far from his own youth that he could not remember that love affairs never stood still, that kisses grew warmer and longer and lovemaking more ardent...

It was certainly true of Guy that he became more ardent all the time, as if he felt a danger in the new development in Fiona's life, and wanted to make sure of her. It was a long time before they came out of the shrubbery, to the garden seat looking out over the darkening view.

"What a magic night," breathed Fiona. And indeed there seemed to be magic abroad, in the brilliant star and the soft night air, in her own youth and soaring spirit, in the thought that nearly all life was before her. Or was it a magic created by Guy, she wondered. Was it a magic of being loved and wanted? Or of being in love herself? She wished she could be sure.

Two days later, Peter Webber's letter arrived, giving the job to Fiona and expecting her to start immediately. At once, beginning to doubt her capabilities, Fiona flew to her father before he left for his office.

"Will I be able to do it, Dad?" she asked him.

"Of course you will," he said easily.

"Darling, you must give me lots of advice. I'm sure I shall be terribly ignorant, and a failure."

"Nonsense, you've had a job before."

"Not this kind of job. You must come back this evening, Dad, and answer thousands of questions for me."

"All right, all right," he said. "But you haven't a thing to fear. I'd be delighted if I got a secretary like you."

"Knowing Miss Hinton, I take leave to doubt it," said Fiona laughing, for Miss Hinton was her father's secretary, and had been for nearly twenty years, and anybody more unlike Fiona would be difficult to imagine.

So that evening, in his study, he answered all Fiona's questions, reassured her as much as possible, and was secretly surprised and a little amused that she took it so seriously.

"Would it be all right for me to drive there?" Fiona asked him. "I'd hate to do that journey always by train and bus."

"See what other people do. In my firm, all sorts of people come in their own cars, even the workmen. But you've seen them parked in the big yard—every kind of car from the kind tied up with string to -"

"To yours," interrupted Fiona.

"To mine," he said with satisfaction, for he enjoyed spending the money he had worked so hard to make.

"Well, thank you, Dad, for all your advice. I feel a bit better about it now," she said, but she could have done with another large dose of reassurance next morning when she presented herself in Peter Webber's office for instructions. Not even a glance in the mirror helped her, for she was too accustomed to her own reflection to know the impact on others of her bright chestnut hair, clear grey eyes and dazzling smile. She was nervous and rather frightened of appearing a novice.

None of this was obvious to Peter, who gave her a polite good morning but was determined to establish the impersonality which saved so much trouble.

"Let's clear the decks for action," he said. "I'd better begin by telling you what my work consists of; then, roughly, the composition of the firm; and then I will take you round and show you just where everything is. You have to have a clear picture, if you're to know where all the people we deal with come from. Then we'd better tackle the enormous amount of correspondence which has accumulated. I've had a typist from the typing pool, but we haven't kept up. This, by the way is your desk and this the typing desk. You work in here and answer my phone when I'm away, which is pretty often. When anything really private crops up, also pretty often in a personnel job, you retire into the little office. If s not much more than a cubbyhole, and there's always filing to do in there."

"I see," said Fiona, rather awed by his businesslike approach.

Concisely and briefly, he outlined for her the kind of work that fell to his lot in this job that was chiefly concerned with good relations between administration and workers; and when that was done he took her on a rapid tour of the works.

He spent the rest of the morning dictating letters, intending to leave Fiona to type them in the afternoon when he had a committee

meeting and then a delegation from the machine shop. Fiona found him a good deal faster than Mr. Wilmot.

It became apparent to her that here was a man of action. Here was a man who was on top of his job, who took things in quickly and did not dither when he made up his mind about them. He also looked remarkably fit physically, tall, lean and hard, and rather brown-skinned. And it had not escaped Fiona that on their tour of the works, while the looks of the men had been cast in her direction, those of the girls they encountered, after a brief curiosity about Fiona, had been centred on Peter, on his dark and somewhat aloof good looks.

When it was time for lunch, a fair-haired girl appeared in the office, offering to show Fiona where the canteen was, and Peter agreed to stop work. He introduced the newcomer as Miss Heeley, and Fiona went off with her to the cloakroom, where, while she washed her hands and repaired her make-up, she learned that Kathy Heeley was "reception," and spent her days in the glass-walled office with an open counter, directing callers, keeping records of them, placating the ones that had to wait and keeping track by telephone of the many people in the building.

As they made their way out of the building, across a road, and towards the long, low building which was the canteen, Fiona said:

"I should have been absolutely lost without you, Kathy, in this vast place. It's so kind of you."

"Really no credit to me. Mr. Webber asked me to do it. He couldn't leave you to fend for yourself in the rugger-scrum that getting lunch always is. And he steers clear of getting involved himself. Poor man, the girls do pester him, and he tries to leave them alone as much as possible. His last secretary got into a shocking state, but there, that's a long story - I think he quite likes me because I never

bother him. Now we join the queue here, and if the steak and kidney pie is on, I should have that. It's easily the star turn on our menu, though the curry's not bad either. But avoid cottage pie like the plague -"

She chattered on, friendly and cheerful, while they waited in the queue, introducing Fiona to so many people that they became a jumble of names and faces impossible to sort out.

"There's your boss," she went on to Fiona. "Sitting over there in the comer with Sheila Pont. Whenever he lunches in the canteen, which isn't always, she tries to get him before he has time to lunch with anybody else. Pesterer in chief, I should call her; though I must admit he seems to like her. She would have given the eyes in her head to have your job, of course."

Fiona looked at Sheila Pont with some curiosity after hearing this, although she already suspected that Kathy's chatter must be treated with reserve. Sheila Pont was very attractive in a vivacious, magnetic fashion, with cloudy dark hair, dark eyes, vivid make-up and a slight tendency to plumpness. She flashed and sparkled, and would, thought Fiona, often be the centre of attraction, and popular with men. If Peter Webber liked her, why hadn't he given her the job of secretary? Or perhaps she was the one he had chosen, and the managing director had put a spoke in the wheel. In that case, Sheila would hardly look on Fiona with a kindly eye.

She spent the whole afternoon typing, and Peter did not once reappear. He telephoned a couple of times from different parts of the building, and the second time told her to leave the letters ready for signing when she went at five o'clock, since he would not be back before. But she had not finished at five o'clock, so she went on until she had, and it was nearly six when she put the letters on his desk, with their accompanying envelopes already stamped; yet he had not arrived. By this time the building was strangely quiet, and she

gathered up her things and went into the deserted cloakroom to tidy up. When she returned along the corridor, the office was still empty, so she made her way out of the building.

She had stayed late, so the works buses had gone, and the big yard where all the cars were parked was almost empty. She had an awkward, cross-country journey in front of her, and suddenly she realised that she was tired. Once more, the strangeness of what she was doing overwhelmed her. What was she trying to prove to herself? Why should she wait here, on this rather drab corner, for a bus to take her to the station, when she could be enjoying drinks on the terrace with her mother and sister and whatever visitors might be at home?

She was hungry and tired, and disinclined for the journey before her.

That evening, however, after dinner in the cool and elegant dining-room, and coffee on the terrace with her family, her spirits revived, and she gave an entertaining account of her day, drawing 4 picture of the crowded canteen, of Kathy and her chatter, of Sheila Pont (describing her quite incorrectly as the girl who ought to have had her own job); and of the office itself. Then she and her father talked shop, much to his delight, until Elspeth protested.

"We shall make a rule," she said, "that you two are not to talk shop at home, or, if you must, you must go and do it in the study. Mummy and I want to talk about the Heffners' dance, and whether you and Guy are coming or not, because we have to let them know: and we don't care a fig about shop stewards or assembly lines or your disagreeable personnel manager."

"But of course I'm coming to the dance," said Fiona, "and I'm having a new dress for it; one with a gorgeous, full, floating skirt to it, but I can't make up my mind whether to have it in white or in a delicate pink."

The three women entered upon such a delightful topic with zest, and Fiona's father sat back smiling an indulgent smile, ready to afford his sweet Fiona any dress she set her heart upon.

So she began to live in two worlds—two worlds that had no connection with each other whatsoever. At home, she was in the lap of luxury; at the office she was a girl thrown into the hurly-burly of earning a living. At home, she was spoiled and adored and indulged by Guy, while at the office, she waited hand and foot on Peter Webber. She was his factotum, taking and making his telephone calls, fixing his appointments, typing his letters and reports, filing everything, placating people who had to wait for him when his appointments overlapped; bringing him a sandwich and a cup of coffee when he had no time for lunch, doing, in fact, everything he told her to do. Her mother and Elspeth would have been amazed at her energy and output and capabilities—sometimes she was amazed at them herself. Even before a fortnight at her new job had elapsed, she found herself wondering what she had done with all her time previously. She was continuously interested and absorbed.

One morning, Fiona tapped at her mother's bedroom door and put her head into the room to say good-bye, a small custom that her mother did not like her to neglect.

"Can't stop, Mother, I'm a little late. Be home at the usual time. Good-bye."

She was gone again, but her mother's voice called her back. Reluctantly, Fiona returned.

"I thought so," said her mother. "Whatever are you wearing that Paris suit to the office for?"

"Because my others are too hot. I baked yesterday, it was quite unbearable. And this is fine linen and will be nice and cool."

"But Fiona, to wear a Paris suit to a dusty office! And the blouse is really so unsuitable!"

"It isn't a dusty office, dear; we have a gimlet-eyed office cleaner who pounces on dust before it has time to settle. And nobody is going to know the suit is from Paris. It's simplicity itself and they'll probably think I ran it up on a sewing machine. As for the blouse, I don't intend to take the jacket off, so that's all right."

"You wouldn't even know how to start a sewing machine," said her mother. "Well, I don't approve: Balmain to the office indeed! But you'd better get off."

It was a perfectly fitting little suit of grey linen, and of the finely-tucked chiffon blouse that went underneath it, only a few square inches were visible, so that Fiona felt quite suitably dressed. She was quite right in assuming that nobody would know her clothes came from Paris, but she had overlooked the fact that they carried their own indefinable air of perfect grooming and' expense. As she parked her car in the big yard (for she had, at the earliest possible moment, abandoned the awkward cross-country journey by train and bus), Peter Webber sat in his and watched her. He saw the little grey car slide into place before realising who was driving it Fiona parked it expertly, got out and locked the door, and dropped the key into her bag. Then she began to walk across the big yard, a slim figure in an elegant suit, walking on high heels, carrying her bright head high. "She looks like a model," was Peter's first thought. But she looked too alive, too friendly, for a fashionable model. "She's a delight to the eye," was his second thought: "and very expensive," was his next. He became somewhat thoughtful. A new-looking car, expensive clothes, an air about her that was unusual among the office girls...

She saw him as she drew near, and gave him her dazzling smile.

"Good morning," he said. "Get in and I'll drive you through."

She got into the car beside him.

"That's a nice little car you came in," he commented. "Your own?"

She hesitated a moment, anxious not to give him an impression of affluence. She smiled, and said:

"Well, I'm the one who uses it most. My father said it would be all right to drive to the office, because I have such a difficult cross-country journey to do."

"Doesn't he go to a job himself?'

"Oh yes, of course. But he doesn't need the car."

That is almost deception, she thought, as they drove through the gates, along to the office block, and then walked together to their office. And she did not think Peter was a person to stand for any sort of deception. She would need to be very careful not to lie to him, for the more she worked with him, the more she realised that he was completely straight and above- board. Tactful, yes, and very diplomatic, but his diplomacy never led him into guile. And he had a quick eye and ear for flippancy or insincerity in anybody else.

On this particular day, Fiona found the office uncomfortably hot. She could not face the canteen meal at midday and lunched on a sandwich and cup of coffee. She did not know how the other girls managed to stay so cool and unperturbed, and supposed they were used to working in all weathers. In the afternoon, as Peter was in conclave with the office manager, and likely to be for some time, she took off her linen jacket, hung it over the back of her chair and settled to work, feeling much cooler in the finely pleated chiffon blouse. No sooner had she done this than Sheila Pont came into the office, to find Fiona answering the telephone, standing beside Peter's

desk, her hair shining in the sunlight, one foot in an elegant high- heeled shoe crossed over the other. She smiled at Sheila and indicated a chair.

Sheila sat down, and, as she waited, studied the girl who spent her days in Peter's office. Shoes, tights, blouse, the fine silk slip under the blouse, also pale and hand-embroidered with broderie anglaise and tiny scallops, the watch on Fiona's wrist—all these things came under Sheila's scrutiny.

She had never owned such things herself, but she knew they were fabulously expensive. Her suspicions were aroused. How could a girl who worked in an office afford such expensive things? To Sheila there was only one answer—she couldn't afford them. She must come by them in some other way than by buying them for herself. So ... who bought them for her? She was attractive enough, by anybody's standards, to have people wanting to give her things.

Fiona put the receiver back on its stand and turned to Sheila with a smile.

"Mr. Webber is with the office manager, and I don't expect him back for quite a time."

"Oh, I won't wait then. Perhaps you would give him a message for me?"

"Certainly."

"Just tell him that Fm all right for the tennis dance, will you?"

"Yes, I'll do that."

Sheila still waited.

"How do you like working here?" she asked Fiona. "Are you getting settled?"

"Yes, I'm getting quite settled down, though I still have an awful lot to learn about the job; and I like it very much. I find it enormously interesting."

Sheila heard all the tones of the cultured and modulated voice, and was infinitely curious.

' "You haven't been in this sort of concern before then?" she asked, her smile warm, her interest apparently friendly.

"Yes, I have, as a matter of fact, but not in personnel. That, I find quite absorbing. I suppose I like dealing with people—I had a job with a charity organisation before that." Fiona was secretly proud of bringing out her jobs in this way —it made her sound a bona fide working girl, gave her a recommendation among the people with whom she now worked.

"You don't look as if you've worked hard for your living,"

said Sheila, smiling. "You look too elegant—I simply love your blouse."

Fiona wished heartily she had not taken off her jacket: as her mother had pointed out, the blouse was not suitable for an office.

"I didn't mean to take my jacket off," she admitted, "but it was so hot, and I was on my own."

"But it's too-pretty to hide. You didn't get that locally, I'm sure."

"No," said Fiona, and added: "It was a present to me, as a matter of fact," wanting to establish only the fact that she had not bought it herself.

"Lucky you," said Sheila. "Well, if you will tell Peter, I have to get back. Mr. Ormesby starts raving if I'm away for more than five minutes."

She went away, wondering who it was who gave such expensive presents to Miss Fiona Chard, and Fiona, who had never had any need to be on her guard against unfriendly spirits, thought how warm and friendly and attractive Sheila was.

Peter came into the office in a whirl.

"Drop everything," he said to Fiona. "A rush job. A batch of letters to send off—all more or less the same, but I want each one to read like a personal letter—so no Roneo. And I don't want to hand it over to the typing pool, because it's just that much too confidential. Could you stay a little late to get them done?"

"Yes," said Fiona, whose time had always been her own, so that she had no need to be jealous of it, as so many people might be.

He dictated the stock letter, and then explained the adjustments to be made to each one, and gave her the list of people to send them to. Fiona went to her typing desk and started work on them. She sat with her back to the wall, facing Peter's big desk, where Peter was already busy with his papers. After a few' minutes, he reached for the telephone, and while he waited for his number he watched Fiona working, her head bent over her notes, her bright hair shining. Without thinking consciously about her, he found pleasure in what he saw, and as he spoke to his man, he continued to watch her. Fiona, wondering if the clatter she was making disturbed him, looked up to ask, found his regard upon her, and immediately flushed; remembered that she was without her jacket and wished she had put it on. He saw her embarrassment and averted his eyes. For a few seconds, they were personally and intensely aware of each

other. Then he became concentrated on his conversation and Fiona returned to her work.

She went on and on. The office staff went home, even the stragglers and those finishing off jobs. The strange quiet that the building always had when empty descended upon it now. Peter worked at his big desk without speaking. Fiona was by now extremely hungry. The sandwich and cup of coffee at lunch-time had been woefully inadequate to carry her on till the evening. At last, she said to Peter:

"Would the canteen be open now?"

"No, I'm afraid not," he said. "All shut long ago. Why?"

"I'm starved. I only had a sandwich at lunch. There wouldn't be any food lurking anywhere?"

"There's a tin of biscuits about somewhere," said Peter, getting up to look for it. Fiona felt a great relief, but the biscuit tin, when found, was empty.

"Never mind," she said. "I expect I can endure."

"Much more to do?" asked Peter sympathetically.

"No. I shall be through in about fifteen minutes."

"Does it take you long to get home?" he asked.

"About an hour."

"Too long," he said. "Much too long for a starving girl." While she hurried on to finish, he picked up the telephone again, and Fiona heard, with growing surprise, what he said:

"Hallo, Mother? Good. What's for supper tonight? ... That sounds good... Is it all ready? ... Well, can I bring a visitor? ... A starving secretary. I've kept her working here and she's collapsing with hunger . . . Yes . . . Yes, fine. We'll be along in half an hour.

"There," he said to Fiona. "I can get home in a quarter of an hour. Finish up, and we'll be off."

"But I can't intrude on your, mother just like that," protested Fiona.

"Yes, you can. She's delighted, and quite intrigued. And she tells me there's salmon mayonnaise and strawberry flan and coffee. Which sound just right for a hot day. And it will be ready when we get there."

"Oh," said Fiona longingly, "how can I refuse, when I'm as empty as a drum ? It's so kind of you."

A little later, they went out to his car together.

"We can leave yours in the yard," said Peter, "and I'll run you back later to pick it up."

He closed her door and went round to take the driving seat. Fiona was aware of a feeling of adventure, in spite of her gnawing hunger. Without this valid excuse, she realised that she might not have got inside Peter Webber's house in years. It was an extraordinary sort of fluke.

She had presumed he was not married, since all the girls in the firm found him so eligible and attractive. But now she knew that he was still living with his mother, and she thought ahead to wonder what his mother would be like, what his house would be like, what indeed Peter himself would be like in the bosom of his family.

This is interesting, she thought, as the car turned into a wide street of detached houses—a pretty street with many trees and carefully-tended front gardens—and came to a stop in front of one house looking very much like all the others.

CHAPTER THREE

PETER and Fiona were met in the hall by a small, plump, elderly woman, with greying hair and a warm, welcoming smile, who immediately made Fiona feel at home. They went into a sitting-room where Peter's father and his brother were also waiting for them, and Fiona was introduced. They were both tall and dark, like Peter, and both good-looking men, but not, thought Fiona, as handsome as he was; and it was obvious that Mrs. Webber was inordinately proud of all three of them.

"Now will you have a glass of sherry?" asked Mrs. Webber, "or was Peter serious when he said you were starving? Perhaps you'd rather go straight in for supper?"

"We would," said Peter, "she really is starving."

"You see," explained Fiona, "I only had a sandwich for lunch. It was really too hot to go and tackle a big, cooked meal. But I didn't know Mr. Webber was going to make me work late."

"I can imagine he's quite a slave-driver," said his mother, leading the way into the dining-room. "But you mustn't let him work you too hard. Now, if you'll sit there, Fiona -" and they grouped themselves about the table.

It was a small dining-room by Fiona's standards, but it was beautifully kept, everything that could be polished gleaming spotlessly, and with its french window open to the garden.

The garden too, by Fiona's standards, seemed very small, but it too was immaculately kept, and she at once admired it.

"It is pretty, isn't it?" said Mrs. Webber. "There was simply no garden at all when we bought the house: I don't think anybody had ever bothered to make one here. But with my three men to work on

it, we soon improved it. When one of them is too busy, the others can take over. When they get married, these two stay-at-homes, we shall miss their efforts in the garden."

"Are they going to get married?" asked Fiona interestedly.

"No signs of it," said their mother cheerfully.

"As far as you know," said Geoffrey Webber, Peter's brother.

"As far as I know," she admitted. "Of course, what they get up to away from here, I don't know; but it's high time they made a move, in my opinion."

"You make us too comfortable here," said Peter, smiling at her.

It certainly was a very comfortable and very homely home, and Fiona felt that there was a happy and friendly atmosphere about it. They were all obviously proud of it too, and she began to realise that most of the girls working on the firm would probably have been impressed by its high standards of comfort. She was a little uncomfortable when she thought of Ingleden House, and relieved that Peter did not have to know about it.

The food was delicious. Obviously Mrs. Webber was an excellent cook. They sat on, around the table, to have their coffee, and went on talking through the summer evening until the light began to go and dusk filtered into the room. Conversation ranged over a number of widely different fields, but at last, in spite of her interest, Fiona realised how long she had stayed, and said she must go.

"Your people will be worried about you?" asked Mrs. Webber.

"I rang them up to say I would be late. It was so kind of you to put up with me."

"It was a pleasure. I wish Peter, and Geoffrey, would do it oftener. Are you going to this tennis dance that the firm is giving?"

"I haven't heard about it," said Fiona. "Oh, except, Mr. Webber, that Sheila Pont came into the office this afternoon to see you; and asked me to tell you she was all right for the tennis dance."

"Thank you. Do you mean to say that nobody has tried to sell you a ticket for the dance? Usually one just can't get out of it. Why don't you come ? " .

"When is it?" asked Fiona; and on being told the date, "Yes, I think I could come then."

"I expect Sheila could let you have a ticket—or two tickets? Perhaps you'd like to bring somebody?"

"Oh, I don't think so," she said promptly.

"What, no boy-friends?" asked Peter's mother, laughing.

"I wouldn't say that" replied Fiona, smiling too.

They all moved into the hall to see her off.

"Well," said his mother, "if you do go to the dance, and would like to come here to change, to save going home, you're quite welcome. Sheila Pont does it sometimes, because it takes her so long to go home and get back again."

"That's very nice of you," said Fiona.

"No really. I just love entertaining. And it's more fun for you—or Sheila—to come here for a meal first than to change at the office."

They went out to Peter's car, Fiona waving to the friendly faces in the doorway; and then drove back to the works so that Fiona could pick up her own car.

"What a nice family you have, Mr. Webber," she said. "And your generous impulse to take me home and feed me must have come to you from your mother, who seems to be full of generous impulses."

"Yes, she's a dear. Always trying to marry off the two of us, of course—you mustn't take any notice of that."

Fiona laughed.

"It was a wonderful supper—I don't wonder you both stay home if you get such lovely meals. I don't know when I've been so hungry as I was this evening. I ought to say a devout thank you."

"Consider it said," said Peter briefly.

They drove in silence until they reached the big yard outside the main gates of the works. Fiona's car stood there, small and solitary, on the otherwise deserted expanse of the yard. Peter drove up to it, got out himself and went round to open Fiona's door.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asked her.

"Quite sure, thank you."

"You're used to driving at night?"

"Yes, quite."

They walked to the side of her car. It was in the shadow of the high wall that ran round the works.

"Give me your key," said Peter. "I'll open up."

She searched in her bag for the key, and as she pulled it out, something else fell from her bag, and they stooped simultaneously to pick it up. They knocked into each other, and Fiona stumbled and would have fallen, but that Peter steadied her and helped her up.

"Sorry," he said in his deep voice, which held a hint of laughter. He still held her arm, and once more, there in the darkness, there was between them an intense awareness of each other. Fiona turned to unlock the car door as Peter turned to take the key from her, and suddenly she was held against him, tightly held in his arms, in a spontaneous movement of which neither of them had any premonition. And she was slim ' and soft in his arms, and her delicate perfume came up to him, and the clean, sweet smell of her shining hair, so that, for a few moments, his senses swam with the delight of holding her, and discretion had flown with the wind.

Fiona was so surprised that she stood motionless, overcome with the strangeness of being in a stranger's arms, and then, almost reluctantly, she moved, released herself and stood away from him, thankful for the darkness that hid their faces from each other.

There was a pause. Already, Peter was wondering uneasily what had possessed him, although the desire to take her back into his arms had not yet faded. Fiona took refuge in the commonplace. She said:

"I must go. My family will be worrying about me."

She opened the car door and got into the driving seat. As Peter made no move, she started the engine, and before reversing away from the wall, called out to him:

"Thank you for everything. Good night, Mr. Webber." Then, as she reversed, and then sped forward away from the yard and the works towards the open country, she asked herself why she had spoken so ambiguously. Why had she said a thank you for "everything?" She

had meant the kindness and the supper and so on, and was by no means thanking him for his latest attentions. Which same attentions had certainly taken her completely by surprise. No wonder, she thought, that he had girl trouble if this was what happened: no wonder that there had been some bother about his last secretary! For he was attractive—no doubt about that. For herself, she was amply protected against that attraction: she had Guy. Some of these other girls, perhaps, were not so fortunate.

If Fiona was surprised, her surprise was nothing compared to Peter's. Nor was he merely surprised. He was chagrined and annoyed. Here he was, maintaining that he wanted, above all things, an impersonal relationship with his colleagues, yet he had allowed this to happen! Such a thing had certainly never happened with his last poor, infatuated secretary; nor with Sheila, nor any of the other attractive girls in the offices. Yet this girl, whom he had known for such a short time, he had taken home on the impulse of the moment; and taken into his arms on yet another impulse. Peter, my boy, he told himself, you'll have to curb these rash impulses. Yet the recollection of her slimness and softness and fragrance in his arms was very pleasant.

When Fiona reached her home, she found Elspeth entertaining several of their friends. Mr. and Mrs. Chard had gone out to dinner, so Elspeth had asked George to come and had rung up other friends, and now, with the wide front door open to the night air, they were dancing on the parquet floor -of the hall. Guy had come straight from his office "expecting," he told Fiona with reproach, "to find you here at least as soon as I was."

"Yes, you bad girl," said Elspeth, "what made you so late? Poor Guy has been in a dreadful state for hours."

"A rush job," said Fiona.

"But not until this time!"

"Oh, no, I had to eat; and I had to get back here."

"Well, now you are here, come and dance," said Guy, and she went into his arms as the music from the record player started, and danced round the hall.

"Darling, darling," he whispered to her, "I thought you were never coming. Don't you know what such an eternity of waiting does to me?"

"Guy, I didn't even know you were going to be here."

"Elspeth rang me up a little before five, so of course I came. She didn't know then that you were going to be late. Did you have to stay, Fiona ? "

"Well, I suppose I did. I couldn't very well refuse."

"But it isn't because you want to stay, because the job or something has got hold of you?"

"Of course not," she said, consoling him.

"But you have found it more interesting than you expected to?"

"Yes, I have. It's quite absorbing. Don't you feel the same way about your job, Guy?"

"Heavens, no. It's just a run-of-the-mill sort of job. It earns me my bread and butter, with not much extra for jam; but I live when that part of the day is finished: I begin to live when I'm with you, Fiona."

"Oh, but darling, that's all wrong."

"It's all right with me," he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. Fiona was not satisfied, but now was not the moment to protest; now, when the music was playing and the lights were low, and laughter came from the others, and she was, in any case, relaxed and rather tired.

Not long afterwards, Helga came in with coffee and biscuits and little sandwiches.

"Let's have them outside," suggested Elspeth. "It's a lovely warm night. All right, Helga, the boys will take them."

The whole party, carrying the refreshments with them, moved out to the terrace, and the men arranged the chairs, and they settled in the dusk, with only one light shining out from the drawing-room to give them enough light to see what they were doing. Couples sank back into the shadows, whispering together, occasionally joining in more general conversation, while Elspeth poured coffee and George carried it carefully round in the half-dark.

"Guy," said a voice from the shadows, "where's the guitar? Now is the time for your songs."

"Oh, yes, Guy." "Do, Guy." "Something really lush and sentimental, Guy," they said, and somebody went willingly to bring the guitar, and gave it to Guy where he sat in deep shadow with Fiona.

He began to sing. This was when Fiona came most completely under his spell. His voice was nothing remarkable, but it was pleasant, with deep timbre, well suited to the soft accompaniment of the guitar, and very skilfully used. She knew that he was singing to her.

As the music came to an end, more lights were switched on in the drawing-room, and Mr. and Mrs. Chard came to the french windows.

"Very nice indeed, Guy," said Mrs. Chard. "We were listening to you from in here; but do you children know that it's past midnight, and most of you have to be up early in the morning? I think we must send you all home to bed."

"Oh, how cruel of you, Mrs. Chard," they said. 'It was all so lovely, soft lights and sweet music, and you talk of sending us home to bed." "And of foul things like getting up in the morning -" But although they chorused their disapproval, they stood up, came out of their shadowed corners, ready to do as they were told. Fiona's parents said good night and went away, Mrs. Chard saying as she went: "You'll sleep here, Guy, I suppose. You can't go tearing back to London now. Your usual room is ready, I expect." And he was glad, because the more they took him for granted, the more they treated him as a person privileged, almost one of the family, the more Fiona would do so, too.

When everybody had gone, and Elspeth had followed her parents upstairs, Fiona said:

"Well, I suppose we must go too."

"Five minutes more," pleaded Guy.

"Just five minutes' stroll round the garden," said Fiona. "But it's late, and I've had a long day."

They got as far as the summerhouse, and found themselves inside, on the swing seat, and Fiona was in Guy's arms, relaxing there.

"Put your feet up," said Guy. "There, isn't that comfortable?"

"Heaven," she said. They were silent for a few moments, then Fiona said, rather drowsily:

"You know, Guy, if s rather odd. When I'm here, at home, and here with you, that other world, of office work, and crowds of people, and hot canteens, doesn't seem real. When you were singing on the terrace just now, I didn't seem to have any connection with the steel works and Peter Webber. And yet, when I'm there, it all seems so real and vital, that it's this world that seems the unreal one. If s rather odd, coming from one to the other."

"I shall feel happier," he said, "when this three months is finished, and you feel you've answered your father's challenge, and I've got my old Fiona back."

"There isn't an old Fiona and a new Fiona, Guy. I'm the same person."

"Not quite. You've got some sort of allegiance, now, to this new job, this new man you work for. There's a part of your life that is a closed book to me, and I don't like it."

"Oh, darling, you are proprietorial!"

"Shouldn't I be? Aren't you going to marry me?"

"I haven't actually said so, Guy."

"Oh, Fiona, don't split hairs. Or else say it quickly, now, and don't try to keep me in suspense."

"But Guy, I haven't said I am going to marry you. You've rather taken everything as settled."

"Fiona!" She realised that this had really startled him. She sat up, away from him, trying to see his face, but it was too dark. "I thought everything was settled."

"Oh, Guy, how could you think so? You asked me to marry you, but we decided to wait; you asked me to be engaged, and we decided to wait. I didn't even feel sure about my love for you. I suppose I ought to, but I don't. That evening that Elspeth announced her engagement was the first time I thought of you in that way at all. I knew you liked coming here, but I thought it was for the social circle, the good times we have, all our friends who became your friends; when you asked me to marry you, I was honestly surprised; yet now, you take it as completely settled."

"Fiona, what is it that holds you back? You don't doubt my love for you?"

"No, Guy, of course not." Her hand was soft against his cheek, in a consoling touch.

"And I don't doubt yours for me," he said, in a more cheerful tone.

"But I do, Guy. Oh, yes, I know, I like us to be together; I'm awfully fond of you. You know that. But I can't help feeling that 'awfully fond' isn't really enough. Or if it is, then I wish I felt surer about it. Oh, I know one can't expect love to be something grand and world-shaking and cataclysmic—you only have to look around you to see that it isn't—but surely it ought to be something that one feels utterly sure about. Something more than just drifting into intimacy -"

"For me, it is," said Guy. "And really, Fiona, most people do just drift into intimacy: from mutual liking into a slow ripening of love. Not that I want it to be that way with us. Really, darling, you've got me terribly worried."

"Oh, Guy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you worried. But darling, don't take me so much for granted -"

He took her into his arms again, and caressed her and rubbed his cheek against her hair, but, in truth, he was worried. Fiona meant even more to him than she could imagine, and he had no intention of letting her slip away from him.

When Fiona reached her room, it was nearly one o'clock, and she had to be up again at seven, yet she did not hurry to get into bed. She put her clothes on hangers to put them away, and looked out a navy blue linen dress to wear in the morning. She sat before her dressing table in a quilted dressing-gown, smoothing cream into her face and neck, and thinking back over the day. The two worlds, the two men inhabiting those different worlds. Guy Pendleton and Peter Webber. She had known Guy over five months now, but still had not met his family, nor knew exactly where he lived. He shared his leisure hours with her: she knew his social side: playing tennis, dancing, dining, singing songs to his sweet guitar. With Peter Webber, it was the exact opposite, after only a few weeks of working with him, she had met his family, been welcomed to his home; yet she knew only his working life, knew him as a man in authority, sorting out difficult situations, wrapped up in his work, concise and businesslike and keen . . . What was Guy like in his working life? Or Peter Webber in his social life? That, she decided, she had an early opportunity for discovering. She would go to the tennis dance with great interest and considerable curiosity.

CHAPTER FOUR

As Fiona parked her car next morning and made her way towards the main gates and the offices, she wondered if the little scene of the night before between herself and Peter was going to cause any embarrassment. She had already decided that she would not refer to it in any way, and appear to have forgotten it completely, but she wondered what Peter would do. When she came into the office; however, it was immediately apparent that such small personal matters had no place in his mind. The works manager was with him, they both looked rather serious and very thoughtful, and Peter greeted her in an absent-minded way that scarcely noticed her at all.

She put her bag away in her drawer and uncovered her typewriter. The works manager, Mr. Holwell, was saying:

"They know it's not a question of redundancy. They know nobody is going to get the sack, but they don't like it."

"Did they all get the leaflets we sent out?"

"Yes, and they didn't like that, either. They felt there should have been a meeting about it."

"There was a meeting. The trouble was that half of them were too indifferent to attend it."

"Well, it wasn't until after the meeting that they fully understood what it was all about, and then they wished they'd been there, of course. There's the usual small proportion looking out for trouble—old Gosforth among them."

"You'd think he was old enough to have more sense—he must have seen a few labour troubles in his time. Well, Holwell, will you keep tabs on the way the men are feeling, and I'll see Mr. Jackson and see

what he thinks about another meeting. Perhaps he'll come and talk to the men himself."

"I'll do that,'' said Mr. Holwell, rising from his chair, "and report progress to you."

"Thank you." Peter rose and went with him to the door. He turned back, still very thoughtful, saying to Fiona:

"It looks as if trouble might be blowing up about the changing of the machinery in the works."

"What's it all about?" asked Fiona.

He glanced at her briefly, and stood at his table for a few moments without answering, still mulling over his thoughts.

"It's like this," he said at last. "We're beginning to make certain parts of aluminium instead of steel, and that necessitates a change of machinery, and a slight change of personnel. Also, it means fewer people on that particular job, so some of them have got to move to something else. Now there's no question of sacking anybody—they all know that; but they know some of them will be on different work, and at once all sorts of questions arise; questions of wages, of prestige and so on. Some of them will have to go to transport, which is understaffed; and that at once means they spend certain nights away from their homes and families—a headache for management if ever there was one. This moment is a very touchy one. Things could go smoothly; the right word at the right moment, an absence of the trouble-makers, the co-operation of the shop steward. But just as likely, they could go wrong, somebody with a grievance stirring up trouble, a lot of them beginning to think they're being done, and suddenly the whole thing goes up, and you've got a strike on your hands."

"Oh," said Fiona, understanding perfectly. This was something she had heard before. Her father had frequently unburdened himself on similar subjects with a good deal of emphasis, so that it was familiar to her. She said:

"What side is the shop steward on ?"

Peter looked at her in surprise, that she should at once pick on so salient a point.

"Ours, fortunately," he said. "He's a jolly good chap. We've always found him reasonable and the men like him. He won't bring in the union if he can help it."

"Can't he talk to the men?"

"He has, and will do again. So will Holwell. We'll see what progress they make today. I have to see Gosforth with a delegation this morning, to explore certain points -and that reminds me. I was supposed to see the dietician at half-past ten, and now I can't. Could you do that for me, Miss Chard?" Complaints about the food, of course. They come in with clockwork regularity. You'll have to be very tactful, find out just what it's all about, and see what you can do about it. Sorry to push it on to you, but I really can't bother about it with this more serious thing afoot."

"I'll see what I can do," said Fiona.

"Good girl! And there's young Waller from the drawing office, too. Wants a change of work. Can't imagine why, he's pretty good where he is. Will you find out what that's all about, too?"

"If he'll talk to me," she said, "I'll be glad to."

Well, she thought, as she settled down to her work, I needn't have worried about embarrassing him. He doesn't know I exist this

morning. He was busy all the time, in and out of the office, telephoning, going to see people, or having them to see him. At half past ten, Fiona saw the dietician; soon after eleven, she saw young Waller. Just before lunch, Peter returned, tossing a few orders in her direction before sprucing himself up to lunch with the managing director. Fiona sat back in her chair and smiled, and Kathy Heeley, coming in to find out if she was going to the canteen, found her smiling.

"What's the joke?" she asked.

"I am. I'm realising what a little cog I am in what a big machine."

"Oh, well, I'm an even smaller cog if that's any consolation to you. Are you coming, over to lunch?"

"Yes, I think I will. Yesterday I only had a sandwich and simply starved later on. And I'd better see what's on for people to eat, since there have been complaints."

"Somebody will always complain," said Kathy, who never did. As they made their way to the canteen, she asked:

"Are you going to the tennis dance?"

"Yes," said Fiona. "Why did you say going, instead of coming? Aren't you going too?"

"No. I go to the soccer dances sometimes in the winter because it doesn't matter what you wear. But at the tennis dances it's always evening dress, for the girls anyway, and I haven't got an evening dress, so I'd rather stay away."

"I was wondering what to wear," said Fiona.

"You can put on your best bib and tucker quite safely," said Kathy. "They all do. And I bet you've got a nice bib and tucker, you always dress so beautifully."

"Would you come if you had a dress?" asked Fiona.

"Well -" Kathy hesitated. "No, to be truthful, I suppose I wouldn't, because I couldn't afford the ticket. That sounds awfully poverty-stricken, I know, but as a matter of fact—and I wouldn't tell everybody, but I don't mind telling you—I do have to watch every penny. My mother is an invalid, and there's only the two of us, and we only have her widow's pension and what I earn. And all my clothes have to last ages and ages. I've never had an evening dress."

Fiona felt very small, and rather ashamed of her own material comfort, and a very strong desire to offer Kathy not only an evening dress and a ticket for the dance, but other help as well, t She managed to restrain herself, however, murmuring a few ordinary words of sympathy.

"Don't think I'm grumbling," said Kathy. "It's not really any hardship to me. My mother's a love, doing as much as she can and never complaining. Now, what's on today? Liver and bacon for me -"

Fiona was turning Elspeth's dresses over in her mind. Kathy was very much the height and build of Elspeth, and Elspeth had more evening dresses than she needed. The soft peach- coloured dress with the lace overskirt might do, but no, she was fair and it might be a little insipid. Then the pale green, with a bouffant skirt and yards of chiffon...

Peter came into the office early in the afternoon, and actually smiled at her. --

"Well," he asked, "did you see the dietician for me?"

"I did," said Fiona, "and I think I've talked her into changing her menus. The fact is, she's rather new, and very absorbed in her calory and vitamin charts; and she wants to give them light, new-fangled foods in this hot weather, and they want their apple pie and their suet pud."

"So they want their apple pie, do they?".

"They do. She feels that progress has had a setback, but agreed to compromise. And it appears that young Mr. Waller can't get on with his boss. So he wants a change."

"I'm afraid it's the boss who needs a Change," said Peter. "There is always friction in the drawing office. I don't quite know what we can do about it."

"I persuaded him to wait a little, and to have another go at working there," said Fiona. "How does your problem go?"

"I'm hoping. That's all. And waiting the next move from the men. Well, we'd better get off some of this correspondence now, if you're ready -"

So he dictated, and Fiona took down letters and then typed them, and left the office shortly after five o'clock, wondering if she had dreamed the evening before, with the pleasant supper party at Peter Webber's house, and the breathless moments in his arms, when he had seemed to her a pillar of strength.

That evening, when she reached home, she sought out Elspeth in her room.

"Hallo, Fiona. You're nice and early this evening, and nothing's happening. I'm dining at George's, and Mother went to London and will be coming home with Dad."

"Elspeth, have you finished with that pale green chiffon dress?"

"I don't know. Why? I suppose I might wear it once or twice more, but it's not one of my favourites."

"Then let me give it away to somebody. Will you? "

Elspeth was at once curious and intrigued.

"Who?" she asked. "And why?"

Fiona explained, and immediately Elspeth was all sympathy and generosity.

"Of course, she can have it; and there's a stole that goes with it, and a tiny evening bag. She can have that little white dress, too, if she likes."

"We can't overdo it," said Fiona. "I don't even know if she will accept the green. But thank you, Elspeth."

Elspeth stood watching as Fiona took the green dress from the fitted clothes cupboard.

"It makes me feel rather ashamed of having so many clothes," she said in a small voice, and Fiona turned swiftly.

"I was feeling exactly the same," she said. "Sorry that it's so easy to give—that it doesn't cost us any effort."

"Of course, it's mad to feel like that," said Elspeth more cheerfully. "We're just lucky to be born into the right place —we don't have to feel guilty about it." She stood in thought for a moment. "All the same," she added, "if she'll take it, she can always have others later."

So Fiona put the dress and the stole and evening bag into a dress box, and added a letter with a ticket for the dance; and left them on Kathy Heeley's counter next morning as she made her way to her office.

Ten minutes later, Kathy burst into the office with tears in her eyes, and, ignoring Peter, went straight to Fiona's desk.

"You needn't have been so very tactful about my accepting," she said, trying to smile at Fiona. "I'm much too poor to be proud. I've never had anything so lovely in my life. Thanks a million—and thanks to your sister too. You bet I'll be there!" And she was gone again, leaving Peter astounded and Fiona relieved.

"What was all that in aid of?" asked Peter.'

"Just a little personal thing between Kathy and myself," she said.

At lunch-time, Kathy was very anxious lest Fiona's sister could not really spare the dress.

"I'll borrow it for the dance and then send it back," she offered.

"No, really, she can spare it. She says she's worn it so often she's tired of it."

"It doesn't look like it, it looks brand new. I can't wait to get home and try it on. I keep peeping into the box. I can just imagine what fun Mother and I will have tonight—she'll be absolutely delighted for me."

"I'll come and pick you up," offered Fiona, "and we'll come to the dance together. You see, I haven't anybody to go with, so really I'm doing this as much for myself as for you."

"And how!" said Kathy sceptically.

On the evening of the dance, Fiona did not avail herself of Mrs. Webber's invitation to change at her house. If Sheila Pont were to be there, and then go to the dance with Peter, she would not be at all pleased to find that she had to share Peter as an escort. Nor did Fiona particularly want to find herself dressing and making-up with Sheila. And as she had no more desire to change in the office cloakroom, she drove home, got ready for the dance there, had her dinner early and set off to pick up Kathy a little later than she had intended. The beautiful dress which her father had bought her for the Heffners' dance was far too grand for this occasion, and Fiona had given a great deal of thought to what she should wear. She wanted, naturally, to look her attractive best; yet she did not want to look out-of-place; so she had compromised on a blue dress she had had for some time, floating panels of blue organza with loose swirling sleeves.

She wore the simple diamond necklace her father had bought her on her eighteenth birthday, knowing that nobody in the hall would dream that the stones were real.

She had some difficulty in finding the street of very humble houses where Kathy Heeley lived, and when she knocked at the door, and was asked into a tiny living-room, she felt shock and sadness at the poverty in which this always good-natured girl lived. Kathy, however, was radiant.

"Just look at me," she said. "Cinderella complete. I hope you'll bring me back before twelve, or something disastrous might happen. This is my mother; Mother, this is Fiona Chard, who got her sister to give me this Wonderful dress."

They chatted for a few minutes. Mrs. Heeley was a pale, rather thin person, who did not move from her chair while Fiona was there, but she had a happy smile, and was at this moment quite obviously delighted for her daughter and proud of her.

"If you do bring Kathy back, come in and have a cup of something before you drive home," she said. "And now go off and enjoy yourselves."

"We're going to be a sensation," said Kathy, and indeed, it proved to be so. Because they were a little late, the canteen, miraculously transformed and decorated for this dance, was fairly full. As they came through the door, a dance had just ended, couples were going back to their tables, which were set all round the hall, and Fiona and Kathy stood there, looking round them to find a table which was not occupied. At first glance there did not seem to be one, and as they stood side by side seeking one, they became a target for all eyes. A few people noticed them, then others, and as the remainder became aware that there was something arresting general attention, almost everybody had turned to look at them. The slender, poised girl in blue, with her bright chestnut hair, and the slender string of diamonds flashing round her throat, was the object of everybody's curiosity, as she had been, in fact, ever since the day she came to work for Peter Webber; but Kathy Heeley was astonishing. Everybody knew her by reason of her job in reception. They were used to seeing her in her well-worn clothes; used to the fact that she rarely came to firm's functions, used to her obliging, matter-of-fact good nature. And here she was, in a dream of a dress, perfectly radiant.

Someone immediately asked Fiona to dance; and he was only the first of a long line of partners. She was glad of the rests between dances, for she wanted to study other people, wanted to see the dresses, to see people she normally saw in office hours, in their leisure hours. Wanted, too, to look for Sheila Pont and Peter; and soon she saw them. They were in a group of six or eight people, all very vivacious, talking and laughing, with wine bottles standing on their table. Sheila was wearing white, which suited her vivid colouring well, but, thought Fiona, wondering if she were being just a little feline, emphasised her plumpness. As for Peter, he was quite

resplendent. Fiona looked, admired, and could find no fault; evening dress suited him to perfection. She wanted to dance with him, but thought that these little groups probably kept to themselves.

She was watching Kathy dancing, and wondering at the age-old but still amazing magic wrought by a new dress, when a voice beside her asked her to dance; and she looked up to find Peter beside her. She rose at once, into his arms, and they began to waltz.

He held her with a beautiful firm precision, and they glided away with such a perfectly matching grace that it did not seem possible that they had never danced together before. After a moment or two of surprise, Fiona gave herself up to the delight of it, and slowly a feeling of the most complete content overcame her, and she wished that the music might go on and on without stopping. Peter's arm closed round her a little more, and as they danced at the end of the room, in the dimness, his cheek came down on her hair, and hers was against his shoulder, and, although they went through all the motions of dancing, these were but an excuse for being in each other's arms, and both of them knew it, Fiona with a suddenly tremulous beating of her heart. Peter's hand came up from her waist, to caress the softness of her shoulder, and Fiona only held herself the more closely to him, as they swayed and turned dreamily together.

The music ended, but the dancers encored and applauded insistently, until, after a pause, it started again. "Oh, I'm in luck," said Peter softly, and they were back in each other's arms, this time with no pretence; dancing in the darkest places, passion in his arms this time, and acceptance of passion on Fiona's part. Excitement tingled in her. She knew that he had kissed her hair. It was hardship to stand away from him at the end, to walk by 'his side back to her table, avoiding his eyes, to thank him with an assumption of politeness before he went away to his own party. After that, he did not dance with her again, and Fiona felt that to dance with anybody else would

be an anti-climax, so she went .to the supper buffet and had some coffee and chicken patty, and talked for some time to Linda Collins who was chief of the typing pool; but although she appeared to be listening with interest to what Linda had to say, her thoughts were back in the dance hall with Peter.

The crowd had thinned out considerably when Kathy came to seek out Fiona.

"Are you ready to go?" Kathy asked. "I am, whenever you are."

"Quite ready," said Fiona, and they went away together. Outside the canteen, groups of people were clustered before breaking up to go their separate ways. Peter detached himself from his group as the two girls approached.

"I expect you have your car here, Fiona," he said.

"Yes, thank you."

"You'll be quite all right?"

"Yes, of course."

"I'll just see you to your car." He turned to the group watching them, addressing himself to Sheila. "Will you excuse me just a moment?" He walked between them, one hand on Kathy Heeley's elbow, the other tucked into Fiona's arm.

"Please don't bother," said Fiona. "We got here late, so I had to park right at the end, under the trees."

"It's a pleasure," he said politely, and it was in fact a pleasure to walk with them through soft summer night, their full skirts making a soft frou-frou of sound, their perfume reaching him fitfully in delicate waves, Fiona's arm soft in his firm grasp. He opened the car

door for Kathy first, carefully tucking in the folds of her dress, and shutting her in; then, with a hand held out to Fiona, he led her round the back of the car to her side, and at the back of, the car, in the darkness of the trees, he paused, turned her towards him, and kissed her full on the lips, an unhurried kiss, one that was neither rough nor gentle: a man-to-woman kiss that Fiona, thinking about it afterwards, decided was a compliment and a tribute. And because Kathy was waiting, he then had to let her go, and Fiona got into the driving seat, and switched on the engine.

"Well," she said, on a long, long sigh, "that's that."

They drove away.

"It was marvellous," said Kathy. "I've never had a good time like that at a dance." But Kathy had material to build dreams on, too; so they did not talk, but drove through the town in silence until they came to Kathy's house.

"Do you mind if I don't come in?" asked Fiona. "Tell your mother I would love to come and see her again, but I have got a long drive, and it's already late—"

"Of course I don't mind, though I know she'll be awake, with some coffee in a flask. She never sleeps well, and she never sleeps anyway until I'm safely indoors. I shall have to tell her about it before I go to bed." Kathy was out of the car now. "Good night, Fiona, and thanks a million."

"Good night, Kathy."

Tomorrow was Saturday morning, and Fiona rather wished that she need not go to the office on this particular day, because she hardly thought that Peter could ignore what had happened between them this time. But there was a special rush job on and she could hardly ignore Peter's request to go in for a couple of hours. As she drove

from home to the office, she thought over what had happened, and was chiefly surprised at her own reactions. From Peter's point of view, well, was it so unusual to hold a girl tightly while dancing and to drop a kiss on her hair? Was it so unusual to give her a good night kiss in the darkness? But, from her own point of view, she had never had real pleasure from kisses before, except with Guy. Many men had escorted her to parties and dances, many had tried to make love to her, and had kissed her; often she had felt a real reluctance, often she had been a passive partner to it. Only with Guy had she really enjoyed it, and she supposed that it was because of this that she thought herself in love with him. But, heavens above, she had enjoyed it with Peter, too. With Peter, whom she scarcely knew. At the first hint of passion, she had responded with a promptness that rather shocked her; but that didn't have to mean that she was in love with Peter, too. "I think," she concluded, "I shall have to take careful stock of my position."

So she came into the office in considerable trepidation. She was wearing a light grey linen dress, with touches of white pique at the high neck, and looked as fresh as a daisy after her late night. Peter, too, had taken advantage of the informality of Saturday morning, when many people came dressed for week-end activities, and was wearing a tweed sports jacket with immaculately pressed flannels. His shoulders looked wider and stronger than ever tinder the tweed.

"Good morning, Mr. Webber," she said, crossing the room to her desk.

"Good morning."

There was a silence. Both experienced great difficulty in finding something to break it. At last, Fiona said:

"Why do they have dances on a Friday night? It should be Saturday, to give people time to recover."

"Haven't you recovered yet?" asked Peter.

Their eyes met, and their glance held. Foremost in both their minds was the one dance they had had together, and their good night.

"No," said Fiona. "Not yet."

"You look as fresh as the morning," he said.

There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Peter moved and crossed the room to her side.

"Fiona," he said, "you must think I'm a bit of a wolf."

"No," she said, surprised. "I haven't thought so."

"I've been alone on two occasions with you, and both times, I've taken advantage of it to force myself on you."

She looked up at him, her grey eyes wide, her skin as soft, as beautifully pink-tinted as a flower.

"If you have," she said, "you must have noticed that I haven't exactly repulsed you."

"And yet," he said, "if I told you that I've never behaved in that way with anybody on this firm, you probably wouldn't believe me."

"Haven't you ? " she asked.

"No. Never."

"Then -"

"Then what, Fiona?"

"Then why with me?"

"I ask myself that question. I've always believed in impersonal relationships between employer and employed; or between colleagues. After that first time, I pulled myself together, and said never again. Yet last night -Well, you do something to me, Fiona. It's as simple as that. I don't seem to be able to help myself. Forgive me? "

"You mean, I bring out the wolf in you?" There was a little smile on her face. "Or that I make your heart get the better of your head?" She held out a hand to him, and he took it in his. "In any case, there's nothing to forgive. Nothing at all."

He was looking directly and thoughtfully into her eyes.

"You enjoyed it too, Fiona."

She took her hand away quickly, and turned away from him. "Yes, I did," she said swiftly. "And that might give you cause to think that I'm used to behaving in that way, too; and you might find it improbable that I rarely do, and that I'm very choosy. So you will have to believe me, as I believed you."

"In fact," he said softly, "it seems that I do something to you, too?"

She turned back to him, and next moment they were laughing together.

"It does seem like it," she said. "But now, we are forewarned, so we can be forearmed. All right ? "

"All right," he said. "And friends?"

"Friends," she said. They shook hands briefly on it, and at the touch of their hands, something seemed to flare up in them; and they let go quickly, Peter setting his jaw in a grim fashion as he turned to his desk.

"Friends," he said, and this time, he said it quite differently, almost with a touch of contempt; beginning to realise that it would be quite impossible to maintain friendship with a woman who affected him as this one did.

Fiona absent-mindedly took the cover from her typewriter, and sat down at her desk, reaching for her shorthand notebook; but she did these things automatically, realising that, if Peter had not let go her hand, if, instead, he had pulled her into his arms, she would have gone with joy and relief land even a sort of hunger. Indeed, she would have to take careful stock of her position.

CHAPTER FIVE

TOWARDS the end of July, a heat wave developed, and working in Peter's office, which was normally a lucky one, facing south and getting the sun, became distinctly uncomfortable. Many people, both from the offices and works, were starting out on annual holidays, and these were delighted, hoping, as they set oft for the country or seaside resorts, that their luck was going to last. Fiona's mother and sister had left for Portofino, lamenting the fact that Fiona could not go with them. Mr. Chard would join them later, and Guy, who had been invited to go out to them for his holiday, was divided between what he wanted to do and what he thought wise to do: to go or to stay behind with Fiona, for Fiona, having so recently changed her job, could not hope for any leave.

"I should be motoring through Spain now," grumbled Peter. "I've put off my holiday until this works problem gets settled, and I expect when I can get off, the weather will be foul."

"Does it show signs of being settled?" asked Fiona.

"It's hanging fire. The machinery is going in, and the men are waiting, I believe, to see what happens. And, of course, a lot of them are away just now, so everything is up in the air."

He looked at the clock. .

"We might as well break here for lunch," he said. "Not that lunch is very tempting in this weather, especially in the canteen."

"I don't go to the canteen while it is so hot," said Fiona. "I discovered a wonderful little spot on my way here—only about ten minutes' drive. Almost as soon as you get out in the country, there's a wood with a stream running through, and lovely soft turf to sit on; so I bring my lunch with me and take it there."

"You shouldn't have told me," said Peter. "I might gatecrash."

"You'd be perfectly welcome. Why not come today? I've got a picnic for two, as a matter of fact."

"But it wasn't intended for me."

"No."

"Then why should I deprive some other lucky fellow?"

"It wasn't a fellow. I was going to ask Kathy Heeley. But she wasn't at her desk when I arrived this morning, so I thought I d see her later. I haven't asked her yet."

"It's very tempting," he said.

"Well, if you decide not to resist temptation, you're very welcome."

"Thank you, I'll come," he said.

"Do we go separately, or together?" she asked, because both knew the interest that would be aroused if the streams of people crossing to the canteen saw them leaving together.

They decided to go separately; and when Peter's car drew up behind Fiona's on the grass verge, and he made his way through the little wood to the stream, she had already unpacked the lunch and, it was ready to eat.

"Less than a quarter of an hour since we left the office," she said. "You could hardly get served in the canteen quicker than that sometimes."

Peter was looking down at the picnic basket and the food.

"It's positively opulent," he said. "You must have gone to a great deal of trouble for Kathy Heeley."

Fiona felt rather guilty, since the cook at home had prepared everything. She also wished that the picnic basket, which had been a birthday present from her father, had been just a shade less luxurious; since she guessed that Peter would know the fittings were silver, whereas Kathy, if she thought about them at all, might think they were chromium; and that Peter would be more aware of the high standard of everything than Kathy. But all she said was:

"I have a great admiration for Kathy. Now, isn't this pleasant? Admit it."

"I admit it without reservation," he said, seating himself on the warm, dry turf. Graceful birch trees gave them just enough shade from the sun, and the water of the stream glided silently past, broken occasionally by ripples. "I've no doubt it's private property, but you don't allow that to worry you."

"Not at all," said Fiona cheerfully. "I do no damage. Now, help yourself. Cold salmon, salad, crusty rolls -"

"Delicious," said Peter. "And wildly extravagant. Would you say that you were a spoiled young woman?"

"I?" asked Fiona in alarm. "Why do you say so?"

"This expensive picnic case—this expensive food -"

"The case was a present to me," she said. "You just happen to have struck a lucky day for the food. In any case, we grow all our salad stuff, like most people who live in the country."

The salmon and salad disappeared, followed by raspberries and cream, and coffee from a flask. "And we still have a few minutes

before we halve to go back," said Fiona, packing the dishes and flask and wrappings back into the case. "Well? Wasn't that better than the canteen?"

"Much better," said Peter, lying down on the grass. "The trouble about this is that it's so pleasant I don't want to go back at all."

She smiled down at him. His dark brown eyes, screwed up against the sun, had golden lights in them in this sun-dappled place. He had shed the concentration and alertness that were always with him in the office, and was relaxed and contented; his strong mouth, so often set in a determined fashion, was mobile and half-smiling, a quirk of humour in it. Fiona had the strangest impulse to lean down and kiss it; an impulse she quickly repressed.

"Well," asked Peter, "why don't you do it?"

"Do what?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Whatever it was you wanted to do."

She laughed and looked away; but his hand came out and took hers, which was on the grass near him; and as she had been supporting herself on it, she almost fell into his arms. They clung together for a few moments, and then Peter propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her.

"Then I will," he said softly, and leaned down and kissed her. Then kissed her again, and when he drew away a little to look into her wide, clear grey eyes, she put her arms round his neck and pulled him back. "Fiona," he said, his lips against her cheek, his arms holding her desperately close. "Fiona, darling."

At last they drew apart.

"We have to go back," she said.

"Yes."

"We're going to be late," she added.

"Yes."

"Then let me go, Peter."

"No."

"Darling, you must." They kissed again, and then, reluctantly, he let her go. She stood up, smoothing out her dress. "Get up, lazy-bones," she said. "Well, then, I shall go. There's no excuse for me to be missing." He got up then, picking up the picnic case and carrying it for her. They walked side by side through the sun-dappled wood.

"Peter," she said seriously, "I didn't mean that to happen."

"I thought it probably would," he said.

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I wanted it to happen, I suppose. The picnic wasn't for me, Fiona?"

"No, it was for Kathy. Oh, Peter." She stopped, and he stopped too. "But I'm glad it was you who came. We could often do this, Peter."

"But we won't," he said grimly. "We're already late now. I should never get any work done. Hop it, Fiona, and I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Kiss me then, and I'll go." He kissed her, but briefly and matter-of-factly, and she made a face at him, took the basket from him and ran back to her car. She was happy and elated. She wanted to sing, she wanted to speed, she wanted in some way to express the wonderful

surge of life and happiness that lifted her out of the everyday. She came into her office, which was empty, loving it because it was Peter's place. In fact, she told herself, trying to be serious, she was in a completely crazy, maudlin, unreasonable mood, and had better get out of it before Peter returned.

When he did, a young man was also waiting for him in the office, a young man on whom Peter had received a most unfavourable report; and as their conversation was likely to prove private, Fiona went into the smaller office to do the filing. After that, Peter went to the machine shop, and then had an appointment with the supervisor who had charge of an army of cleaners, and so the afternoon wore on, busy all the time, and Fiona had barely a glance from him, scarcely a word: until it was time for her to go home, when he said:

"Could you wait a few moments? I want to talk to you."

"I mustn't be long. I have a date this evening."

"So? I won't keep you long. Who is the date with?"

She hesitated.

"Well, nobody you know," she said, smiling at him.

"Naturally, as I don't know any of your friends. I only meant to ask if it was a young man."

"Yes, of course."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Why 'of course'? Do you always have that kind?"

"Usually, I must confess I do. Though sometimes we move around in a bunch."

"You told me once that you were choosy."

"Yes, I meant it, too."

"Then your dates aren't all like our picnic lunch today?"

"Heavens, no," said Fiona.

He stood looking thoughtfully down at his desk.

"You wanted to talk to me," she reminded him.

"Yes." Still he hesitated. "Yes. I don't like mixing business with pleasure, Fiona."

"So I understood," she said. "And so?"

"So," he said, "you aren't a very good influence on me."

"Oh," she said softly.

"It would be much better for me—for my work—if I had a much less disturbing secretary."

"You aren't going to sack me Peter, are you?"

"Would that be a blow to you?" he asked, turning to look directly at her.

' "Yes, a big blow. I particularly want to keep this job. I'm —I'm awfully interested in it."

"In it?" he asked. "In the job?"

"Yes, really. In you, too, of course—I can hardly deny that, can I?"

"It doesn't work, Fiona. I know it from my own experience and from the experience of a great many other people in this firm. And important things are happening at this time—here in these works. I want to be single-purposed—and you distract me. Very much."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise that it was so much against your will -"

He smiled at her in swift apology.

"It's just that it's here, in this office. If I'd met you outside, at some social occasion, it would be different. Even if you were working at the other end of the building, so that I hardly ever saw you, it would be different. But to have you in the same room day after day, getting in the way of my work, that won't do. You do see, Fiona, that if I'm to put my best into this job, I have to concentrate on it?"

"Yes, I do see that," she said.

"Then it means that either I get a much less disturbing secretary, or do we do our best to re-establish impersonal relations."

"Please don't get a new secretary."

"Then we do the other thing."

"That, my dear Peter, is entirely up to you," she said, looking at him directly with her clear grey eyes. "I think you've usually made the first move."

"I don't think I did today," he said. His dark eyes held hers, and she remembered that impulse to lean down and kiss his mobile mouth.

"All right," she said, capitulating suddenly. "From now on, Peter, a purely impersonal relationship in the office." She held out her hand to him, and they shook hands firmly.

"And no picnic lunches," he added.

"And no picnic lunches, poor you," she said. "I really shall ask Kathy instead. And is that all you wanted to say?"

"Yes, thank you. Thank you for taking it so well."

She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"Then I must get away," she said. "Good night, Peter. Is it all right, by the way, to call you Peter—privately, of course?"

"Why not?" he asked. "Good night, Fiona."

At the door, she paused, and looked back at him.

"Supposing I meet you outside the office?" she asked.

He looked at her quickly, and she laughed at him and was gone. Women, he thought, women; how they cut across one's steady purposes. He knew instinctively that Fiona was not serious with him; he felt that there was no slightest thought of any serious relationship with him; yet she was quite ready to upset and disturb him, to distract him from his work, probably to enjoy a light-hearted affair with him. In replacing Diana Cray by Fiona, had he mistakenly jumped from the frying pan into the fire?

The next morning was Saturday and Fiona went with her father to London; and as he intended only to sign some papers and then pick up his tickets for the journey to Portofino, she waited for him and then carried him off to shop with her.

They went in Mr. Chard's beautiful sleek monster of a car, sitting behind Matthey, and when they drew up at the Piccadilly store, the commissionaire sprang to open the car door for them. Two girls admiring the expensive produce in the windows turned to look at the

beautiful car, and saw Mr. Chard get out and turn to extend a helping hand to Fiona. One of the girls said softly: "Good lord, Fiona Chard," and the other girl said: "Who's Fiona Chard?"

"Never mind now," said Sheila Pont, "but do let's follow them in."

She took a good look at the car, Which was being moved away by Matthey, and then followed Fiona into the awe- inspiring store. Not, Sheila admitted, that Fiona found it awe-inspiring. She had her hand tucked into the arm of this elderly man, and was very gay and talkative, and certainly dressed for conquest. Trying to be unseen, and yet to hear, Sheila managed to keep near them as they walked through the store. She heard Fiona's clear voice talking to one of the black- coated assistants; giving an order, asking for it to be charged to account. "Let's have some caviare, darling," she said, turning to the man who accompanied her, "and you need another jar of Stilton; and I made a list of the other things we need. I have it somewhere; ah, here it is." She gave it to the assistant, then, turning back: "Now come and give me some coffee, love. I don't often get you in tow like this, I'm going to make the most of it."

"Well, well, well," said Sheila, watching them go up the steps at the far end of the store to have their coffee. "I had a sort of suspicion of something like this -"

"You are maddening," said her friend. "What is it all about?"

"She's Peter Webber's new secretary—the one I was telling you about."

"No? She doesn't look the part."

"Today, she certainly doesn't. She's always just that little bit too well dressed, even in the office. Could we go up there and have some coffee, do you think?"

"She'd be sure to see you."

"Then we won't. Let's wait until they go; I must see them again." So they" walked around the store, admiringly, until Fiona and her father left again; and Sheila felt a pang of envy for the confidence and sureness of herself that Fiona displayed. And it never once occurred to her that this prosperous, well- dressed, elderly man could be Fiona's father. Employing a chauffeur, running such a fabulous car, supplying household needs of the dearest kind—there was only one thing that he could be in Sheila's mind. She considered she had proof of something she had only suspected before; and the faint dislike she had for Fiona, which was the outcome of the premonition that she was a danger to herself, changed to contempt; for who would be an old man's darling?

Sheila was almost at the end of her fortnight's holiday. She had had ten days on the south coast, and returned to London, where her friend had a job and a small fiat, for a few days of London life, one or two theatre visits, some shopping, some dancing and a good deal of window-gazing. The next day she would return home. It really had been an amazing stroke of luck to walk into Fiona Chard today.

Quite unconscious that she had been watched, Fiona finished her shopping, drove back to the country with her father and lunched with him. They spent the afternoon in the garden together, having tea out there. Fiona was awaiting the arrival of Guy, who, it had finally been decided, was to travel to Portofino with Mr. Chard on Monday, and who would spend the week-end at Ingleden House before leaving.

"I feel so guilty about leaving you, Fiona," he said, when he arrived with all his luggage. "I do wish you could be coming too."

"Well, I can't," said Fiona, "because I don't get a holiday when I've only been there a few weeks."

Her father smiled at her, a little sympathy mixed with a very little malice. He was pleased to see her sticking to her guns. If she found it hard to see them all going off to Portofino, she gave no sign of it.

"And why you should feel guilty, I don't know," went on Fiona. "You've been working all the year, you deserve a holiday; and mother has taken the whole villa, so there should be tons of room. I heard that Betty and Oliver Thornley were hoping to get along there next week, so you should have fun. And George flew over a few days ago too. Well, when you're all basking in the blue, blue Mediterranean, remember me with my nose to the grindstone."

"You seem to be quite attached to your grindstone," said her father with his usual acumen.

"I do find it enormously interesting, Dad," she remarked with a candour that did not deceive him. He was too used to that disarming air of candour in Fiona to be deceived by it any longer. He smiled at her with a very real affection—he had enjoyed his day with Fiona, had enjoyed being taken round the shops and listening to her sprightly conversation; had been proud of her as she held his arm, concentrating on him as if he had been a much younger man; had been aware of the glances thrown in their direction.

After dinner, he went into the drawing-room with the two young people, for his coffee, but then went away to his study to see to a few last-minute affairs before his holiday.

"Good," said Guy. "I have to make the most of every minute this week-end."

"You're only going for a fortnight," Fiona reminded him.

"I shall miss you all the time."

"You won't, you know. You'll all be having such an absorbing time -"

"Sometimes," said Guy, shaking his head, "I begin to be despondent about you, Fiona. I begin to wonder if you can be in love, and be so cool. It's only the conviction that all you want is waking up that consoles me. Do you think that, even if the whole holiday was full of incident and very absorbing, I still wouldn't miss you? That every time we saw something interesting or beautiful, I shouldn't at once think that Fiona ought to be with me to see it; that every lovely night, I shouldn't need you there to complete it? Good heavens, however many beautiful girls were round me, I wouldn't care a fig for one of them, because they weren't you."

"Guy, I can't help it, I just don't feel so wrapped up in you. There's still room in my heart and mind for all sorts of other things."

"You haven't got as far as I have, yet. But you will, darling, I'm sure."

He played golf with her father on Sunday morning, which he considered a tactful move, although he would rather have spent it with Fiona, but for the rest of the day they were together, and it was an altogether satisfying day to Guy. He felt that he was getting somewhere with Mr. Chard, whose manner to him was always pleasant and friendly, and that he was becoming more and more one of the family.

It pleased him, too, to be travelling with Mr. Chard. They breakfasted together early on Monday morning, and Fiona saw them off, their luggage stowed away in the back of the car, Matthey driving them. As they glided away, Fiona stood on the steps of the house waving to them; a slender, grey-clad figure, her bright hair shining in the sun, calling out good wishes to them, and Guy looked

at her adoringly, for indeed, all the hopes of his life were now centred in Fiona.

Fiona walked to the garage for her own car, to drive to the office. As she drove, she reflected that this was her first meeting with Peter since their decision to re-establish impersonal relations, and she recognised that this was a good and sensible move. It was true that, at this time, he had a number of problems on his hands, and that he must be single-minded for them. It was equally true that Fiona herself was almost on the point of becoming engaged to Guy; and that this attraction between herself and Peter could be nothing more than a spontaneous physical attraction; something which, given the right circumstances, might do no harm at all. But these were not the right circumstances. Peter was right. It must stop.

For almost a week, it did stop. Peter was busier than usual. Old Gosforth, the man who was suspiciously watching every development in the works, backed by one or two of the younger ones who were not averse to trouble, had returned from holiday to find that he would be transferred to the packing department, which he regarded as a relegation, and was ready to fight. One of his supporters would be moved to transport, which would probably mean spending nights away from home, and he was ready to fight with Gosforth. Others were waiting to see where they would be put; nearly all of them regarding any possible move as one for the worse. Peter was closeted with the works manager for hours on end, trying to work out a system satisfactory to everybody, which was almost impossible. Fiona did everything that she could to help him with less important appointments, staying late to take letters and get them sent off, making herself as unobtrusive as possible; and for nearly a week, he scarcely seemed to notice her.

On Friday afternoon, his appointments finished, he sighed with relief.

"I think we've earned our week-end break, Fiona," he said, smiling at her.

"You have," said Fiona. "What a troublesome week this has been. Can you forget it until Monday?"

"I shall try to. I have to play in a tennis tournament tomorrow afternoon, but as soon as I can get away, I'm off to friends for the week-end. Sunday on the river, I hope."

"That sounds nice," she agreed smilingly.

"And what will you do ? "

"I don't know. My family is away on holiday. It's so quiet at home without them."

"What about the young man of the date?"

"Oh, he's away, too. But I daresay I can manage to survive on my own,"

"I'm sure you can," he said, "but what a waste!"

"A waste?"

"Of you—of your charms," he said.

Fiona looked at him, and his eyes met hers.

"Forbidden," she said.

"Touché," he agreed. "You must keep me in my place."

"It was you who wanted it," she said, a little distressed.

"I know," he admitted. "The trouble is that you can't change —you're still you."

"Peter, I have work to do," she said firmly. "Please excuse me."

"You're quite right," he said. "I ought to say thank you, Fiona. I suppose it's a relaxation of the tension I've been feeling all the week. Sorry."

She went on with her work, and Peter stood at the office window, looking out and thinking. At last, he turned back :

"I don't think there's anything I need wait for," he said, "I might as well get off."

"Oh, sign these before you go," she said, indicating some letters on her desk.

"All right, let me have them," he said, walking towards his desk. She took him the letters, and, still standing, he signed them for her. "There you are," he said, screwing the cap on his pen. "Is that all?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied, beginning to gather up the letters.

"Then I'll get along. Have a good week-end, Fiona."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "And you."

She looked up to see him go, but he did not move. There it was between them again, the tension, the awareness, the mounting excitement; some power that seemed to draw them together.

"It's no good, Fiona," he said, and they were in each other's arms. "It's something I seem to have got pretty badly -" She could hear the hard hammering of his heart, feel his arms strong and possessive about her. She sighed a long sigh.

At that most inopportune moment, the door opened very suddenly, and Sheila Pont stood in the doorway, with a folder of papers in her hand. Peter and Fiona moved hastily apart, but Sheila stood rooted to the spot in astonishment. There was an awkward and embarrassed pause. Peter recovered himself first.

"Come in, Sheila," he said. "Can I do something for you?"

Sheila moved then. She put the folder on Peter's desk, carefully avoiding looking at either of them.

"Mr. Ormsby wants you to have a look at that," she said, "but says if you're busy" (was there a faint irony or sarcasm in her voice when she said that?) "Monday morning will do. And I, Peter, wanted to know about the tennis tournament tomorrow afternoon. Are you all right for it?" She lifted her dark eyes to his face, and, with an effort, he smiled down at her.

"Yes, certainly, I'm all right for it," he said pleasantly, his voice deep but quite under control. "Can I pick you up?"

"I wish you would," she said. "It would save me a lot of time. Shall we say about half past two?"

"Yes, that's fine. Two-thirty, then, at your house."

"Thank you, Peter. Au revoir till then."

She turned and went away, closing the door carefully behind her. Peter and Fiona looked at each other across the room.

"Damn," said Peter, knocking his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. "Damn, damn."

"I'm sorry, Peter," said Fiona in a small voice.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "It was mine. It's been mine all along. I haven't let you alone. And this is what comes of it. It will now be over the whole works. The one thing I've tried to keep free of—the gossip. And I've let you in for it, too, Fiona."

"I don't mind about that," she said. "But I do know how you feel and I'm sorry. But will Sheila talk so much? "

"She only has to talk a little. Even hint a little. That would be enough. And I daresay she would never mention it if I asked her not to."

"But you prefer not to ask her—naturally." She stood in thought for a few moments. "Peter," she said then, "transfer me. Put me to work somewhere else."

"No," he said sharply. "You're good in this job. I like you here." Then suddenly, he flung out his arms. "You see," he went on, "how I delude myself. The trouble is that I don't want you to go anywhere else."

"Let's sleep on it," she suggested. "Let's see what Monday brings forth. If you would be better without me, Peter, put me in some other department."

"Do you want to go?" he asked.

"Oh no. I don't want to, but I will if you think it's better."

"All right," he agreed. "We'll let it rest until Monday, and talk about it then."

CHAPTER SIX

DRIVING back to her home, Fiona found herself the prey to very mixed feelings; rather confused and bewildered, a little glad and a little sorry, a little triumphant and a little despondent. It was a good thing that she had not to drive through the traffic of the town, for the works and offices were on its outskirts and she could head for the open country; because her powers of concentration were given far more to thoughts of herself and Peter than to her driving. She was sorry because Sheila had witnessed a scene that should have remained private, but triumphant because Peter's resolve had weakened against her attraction for him; but she did not know why there should be a faint despondency too. It was there, and trying to ignore it did not disperse it, but she could not account for it.

It would be a great pity if Sheila told everybody what she had seen. And the construction she put upon it could make a great deal of difference to what people thought. Peter had a great reputation for integrity and sincerity and was generally regarded as being above office intrigues and affairs: she knew that this reputation meant a great deal to him, and helped him considerably in dealing with the problems of others. She did not want to be the means of helping to destroy it.

Yet had she been the means? Hadn't it been Peter himself who had failed to keep their bargain? What was it that Peter had said? "It's no good, Fiona. It's something that I seem to have got pretty badly -"

Suddenly, Fiona drew in to the side of the country road, and stopped the engine of the car. She wanted to think. To think— or to feel? Perhaps both. She wanted to remember how Peter had said that: reluctantly, against his will, yet quite unable to resist. And she had been equally unable to resist. Whatever it was that Peter had got pretty badly, she had it pretty badly, too.

Sitting there quietly in her car, Fiona experienced a slow and beautiful revelation. It was like the dawn of a new day, slow at first, faint, a dim light thrusting against the darkness; then a rosiness that grew into a fierce glow of unbearable beauty, spreading through the whole of her heart and mind; and this settled slowly into a clear, steady, white light, as of morning, which did away With the darkness, revealing everything to her in plain outlines, so that her confusion disappeared, and she knew, only too certainly, what it was that she had "pretty badly." She was in love. In love with Peter.

When she reached Ingleden House, she saw a long sports car parked before the entrance and recognised it as belonging to Oliver Thornley, who had been staying with her family at Portofino. She went in to find four people waiting for her, and Betty Thornley jumped up from her chair to greet her.

"Fiona darling, there you are! Looking positively radiant if I may say so; and not at all bowed down by overwork."

"How nice to see you all," said Fiona, who suddenly realised she had not been looking forward to her lonely week-end.

"You know Jill, of course, but I don't think you've met Frank." Introductions took place and Betty ran on: "Your family implored us to come and look you up. We had a wonderful time with them at Portofino, but they spent hours lamenting the fact that you weren't with them; so we promised we would come and console you as soon as we got back."

"You've got a heavenly tan," commented Fiona. "Now you will stay and have tea with me, won't you? I don't know what can be concocted at such short notice—and we're short of staff because Helga and Matthey are on holiday too, but -"

"We looked after that," said Oliver. "We rang up and talked to your cook. She said you would be home to tea, and said how nice it would be if we came, too; and gave us orders to bring the ham with us. She gave us some sherry and shut herself in the kitchen quite happily."

"Good," said Fiona. "How efficient you are. I can just sit back and enjoy having you here."

Enjoy themselves they did. After a perfect tea, they relaxed in the garden while they gave Fiona all the news from Portofino, and later they changed for tennis and played it in a light-hearted and rather inexpert fashion through the summer evening. They had a late supper on the terrace, pleasantly exhausted.

"I find Fiona distraite," Betty announced after a while. "A little lacking in her customary joie-de-vivre. What is it, Fiona? Are you really working too hard in this steel factory of yours.?"

"I don't work in the factory," she explained lazily. "I'm a very efficient secretary—quite an important person in my little sphere. And I'm not working too hard."

"Then you must be missing Guy. He had hoped you were. I shall write and tell him that Fiona is pining."

Fiona smiled, but she had experienced a sudden nasty jolt, as thus, unexpectedly, Guy was brought into her mind. Guy, holidaying happily with her family at Portofino, yet thinking constantly of Fiona back at home, wanting her with him to complete his happiness; to round off every picture of interest or beauty; and, more than that, hoping that Fiona was missing him too. And she had not missed him. She had fallen in love with somebody else.

Dismay spread through her at the thought of all the problems lying ahead of her, but the others gave her no time to consider those

problems now. They were trying to persuade her to go back to London with them that evening, so that she could spend the week-end in company with the Thornleys and return to Ingleden House on Sunday. Fiona had to be adamant to make them go without her. She said that she had things to see to—and indeed, she had.

The tennis played at Ingleden House had been light-hearted, but a match of quite another calibre was being played on the tennis courts of the firm. The mixed doubles tournament was being played, and this third round saw the meeting of the couples most likely to win it. Other pairs, entering not too hopefully, said, shrugging their shoulders: "It's bound to be won by either Laurence and Judy Smith, or Peter Webber and Sheila." Now the luck of the draw had set them against each other, and the court was thickly surrounded by interested spectators. It was a ferocious fight, very narrowly won by Peter and Sheila, and after it, all four contestants were completely exhausted. Escaping from the flood of congratulation, Sheila said:

"Tea, tea! I'm dying for some tea."

"You shall have it," said Peter. "You certainly deserve it. You played brilliantly, Sheila, absolutely inspired. We shouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Nonsense," said Sheila happily. "You were brilliant, too."

"I wasn't," insisted Peter. "I can't give enough time to it nowadays to keep on top; Laurence could beat me any time now. It was entirely due to you."

"Oh, well," said Sheila, "together we're invincible, and that's all that matters." She saw Peter glance at his watch. "Are you in a hurry?" she added. "I was hoping you would stay on this evening."

"No can do," said Peter, smiling, "I'm week-ending with friends. I promised to be there for dinner, so I haven't a lot of time."

"You go and change, and I'll get the tea," offered Sheila. "Then you can at least relax long enough to recover after that match."

When he came back, changed into flannels and a sports jacket, looking spruce and fresh and, to Sheila, devastatingly handsome, tea was waiting for him; and he sat down opposite her thankfully. Sheila, hearing that he was visiting friends for the week-end, had immediately seized on the idea that he was seeing Fiona, and this tormented her; so that she felt she must find out, or her own week-end would be ruined.

"Must you really reach your friend in time for dinner?" she asked. "Couldn't you stay on here a bit, and get there later?"

"No, I couldn't do that," he said. "They're very old and valued friends, and I'm longing to see them; and if I know Pat, she's probably busy on something very special for dinner right now. I couldn't let them down."

So it was not Fiona, she thought with relief. And Peter knew what she had thought, what she was now thinking. Fiona was there in both their minds. He did not want to speak of her: if he had to, it would be with the greatest reluctance, yet he was very anxious that she should not be involved in office gossip. Especially as she had done nothing to warrant it. Peter admitted to himself that he had been at fault every time. With all his vaunted desire for impersonality in office relationships, it had been he who had put Fiona into this position, where she was more or less at Sheila's mercy.

Sheila's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Something on your mind, Peter?" she asked, quietly.

"Yes," he said, knowing that the same thing was in both their minds.

"Fiona Chard," she said simply.

"Not so much Fiona Chard," he replied, "as -"

"As the fact that I came in and disturbed you and Fiona," finished Sheila. "I'm sorry, Peter, that I came in just when I did. I could have no idea, of course, that—anything like that —existed between you."

"And now, you see, you've got a very wrong impression," said Peter.

"How do you know that I have? Unless you tell me what impression I ought to have ? "

"You probably think that something is going on between us."

"Well, isn't it?"

"No," said Peter, looking directly into her dark eyes.

"Oh, Peter" she protested, "how can you say that? You must think I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid, Sheila. I think you have enough intelligence to realise that it could easily be a momentary— aberration, shall we say—on my part. Fiona had nothing to do with it. I forced my attentions on her—what an odious phrase that is, but it will have to do—and now I've left her open to gossip."

"How have you done that? Do you think that I will gossip?"

"I very much hope you won't, Sheila."

"Are you asking me not to?" she asked, her eyes on his.

"No, I don't ask you," he said. "I know you won't."

"Oh, Peter," she smiled. "Thank you for that." Her hand touched his for a moment and then withdrew. "No, of course I shan't mention to anybody anything about you or Fiona. But I must say that nobody would ever believe your interpretation of that little scene. To say that Fiona had nothing to do with it, and that you forced your attentions on her, is just laughable."

"What do you mean?" asked Peter.

"Well, for one thing, you would never force yourself on anybody. You're much too nice, and everybody knows it. And for another thing, I happen to know too much about Miss Fiona Chard to believe that she had nothing to do with it."

Peter frowned.

"I'm afraid you'll have to explain that, too," he said.

"My dear Peter, it's so easy to see the kind of girl she is. Oh, I know she cultivates an air of dignity and aloofness, but that doesn't deceive anybody for a moment. I thought as soon as she arrived here—and I was by no means the only one either —that there was something a little suspicious about her. Have you any idea, Peter, what her clothes must cost? I know they are always very simple, but I know, too, what that kind of simplicity is worth. I know what her hand-embroidered things are worth. But that, of course, is nothing against her. There could be all kinds of legitimate ways by which she could have such fabulously expensive things. But, as it happens, I saw her in London, when I was on holiday."

"Well, go on," said Peter.

Sheila hesitated.

"Go on," insisted Peter.

"Oh, I don't know if I will," said Sheila slowly.

"You can't justify anything you have said, without an explanation."

'1 know, but I don't know if I ought to tell you."

"That means it is unpleasant," said Peter.

"Yes—and really, at bottom, I do think you ought to know. We saw her in Piccadilly. I was with a friend, window-gazing, and a car stopped at the store; the kind of car that had the commissionaire leaping about, and everybody staring, the kind that you think must belong to a captain of industry or a film magnate; and the man that got out was just that type. Elderly, very prosperous, a man accustomed to getting his own way. And, to my utter astonishment, he helped Fiona Chard out of the car. Lou wouldn't have known her, Peter. Of course, I was consumed with curiosity—I just had to follow them in. She wasn't a bit her cool and dignified self. To begin with, she was really dressed up, looking like the Rue de la Paix, and then she was laughing and talking, all sparkling and gay, hanging on to this man's arm, and calling him darling with every other breath. And ordering caviare and other expensive things and having them charged to account; as if she normally did her shopping there. Well, there wasn't any doubt in my mind—• and nor would there have been in yours, if you could have seen them."

"There's probably quite a simple explanation," said Peter.

"If there is, I should be interested to know what it is," said Sheila. "I tried to think of one myself, but I couldn't."

"He might have been a relative."

"I don't know any girl who acts towards her elderly relatives as Fiona Chard was acting towards him. Unless, of course, she hopes

to be left a fortune. But it looked to me as if the benefits she received were very present benefits and not future ones."

"Well, that is all Fiona's own business," said Peter, "and has nothing to do with me. Except that it probably helps you to believe that she's not interested in me."

So the subject of Fiona was left behind, and a little later, Peter set off for the house of his friends. He had a long drive in front of him, and, he knew, plenty of material to occupy his thoughts during it. For it was obvious that Sheila had told him the truth, even though she might have put a mistaken interpretation on what she had seen. But she did not know quite as much about Fiona as Peter did, or she would have been more than ever convinced of her rightness. For Peter remembered that Fiona had told him that she needed a job, which tended to cut out the possibility that this man was a relative; also, when she had admitted a slight relationship with the steel magnate Chard, she had made it obvious that she received no favours from him. Which also seemed to cut out the possibility that it was Chard. Then who was it? Who could it be? It was true that Peter's managing director had produced Fiona for the job of his secretary, and what more likely than that she had been introduced by somebody influential? It looked bad, but there must be a simple explanation.

In his thoughts, he went back carefully over his relationship with Fiona. The first time he had taken her in his arms, in the dark yard where her car was parked, she had been too surprised to make any response, but she had certainly not rebuffed him. The second time, surely, had been the night of the dance, when dancing with her had been all delight, had seemed a fusion of two entirely similar beings, and when the desire that stirred in him had evoked a ready response in her. He had made the running—she had merely responded.

Then, again, there had been the picnic by the stream in the sun-dappled wood, when initiative had certainly been as much hers as his, when, he now remembered, she had suggested that they might often repeat this lunch-time picnic. She had gone away from him light-heartedly, happily, not at all averse to his lovemaking, indeed, enjoying it; and, although she had agreed at once to try and establish impersonal relations, she had also as quickly responded when he found it beyond him. Did all this add up to what Sheila wanted to make of it? A longing for youth to match her own, after age that was too sedate?

On Monday morning, among the many people converging on the works and offices of the engineering company, two rather confused and worried ones made their way to Peter's, office. Peter's chief worry resolved itself into whether Fiona was as honest as she seemed to be, or he had been mistaken in her. Fiona's chief worry was what on earth she was to do about Guy, but it must be admitted that this worry was completely overlaid by the delight and wonder and astonishing loveliness of being in love with Peter. So she waited in some trepidation for his verdict on her immediate future. Would he transfer her to another department or would he allow her to go on working for him? She wanted to stay. She felt that she would agree to any condition he cared to impose, if only he would keep her with him.

So that she was very much surprised when the subject was not even mentioned. True, he was sent for by the managing director almost as soon as he arrived, and kept by him for some time; and when he returned to the office, he at once dictated several letters as a result of the interview, from which Fiona gathered that tension in the works was still causing a great deal of concern. He went off to the works the moment he had finished dictating, and had not come back when Kathy Heeley looked in to see if Fiona was going to lunch with her;

but it seemed to Fiona that he could have given her some sign, or mentioned, if only in passing, whether he intended to keep her or dispense with her.

If ever a day turned out to be a disappointment to her, that day was. Peter had left her a note during her lunch-time, to say that he would be out for the rest of the afternoon, and that tomorrow he was going to London with Mr. Jackson; and giving her instruction what to do about various outstanding things. So the rest of today and all of tomorrow stretched dull as a desert before her. She even counted the hours until he would appear again in the offline on Wednesday morning.

It occurred to her that she was following rather unhappily in the footsteps of Peter's last secretary. Did all his secretaries fall in love with him? she wondered.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AT LAST, Wednesday morning, inevitably but oh, so slowly, arrived, and Fiona felt a recurring tremor of excitement as she prepared herself for the office, ate her lonely breakfast, and then drove through the sparkling morning countryside. This morning, surely, Peter would say something in extension of their Friday conversation, would tell her what he thought it best to do with her in future. All she dared to hope for, as yet, was that he would keep her as his secretary, so that she could work in the same room, talk to him, look at him, daily get to know him better.

She parked her car and began to walk towards the main gates. A stream of office workers was approaching them too, among them Sheila walking with some friends. Fiona waved to her, but did not stop. The girls watched her as she crossed the road and went through the gates.

"She does have lovely clothes," sighed one, enviously.

"I don't think it's really the clothes," said another, "as much as the way she wears them. She has style."

They watched her walking in front of them. She was wearing a navy blue dress with a pencil slim skirt, and high-heeled navy blue shoes; but over the dress she had a short, loosely swinging jacket of a roughly-woven cloth in white, and it was a jaunty little jacket with an air of sophistication all its own.

"A bit of Paris fun," commented Sheila; and as the others looked at her in surprise, "That jacket, I mean; that's what it looks like. Would you find one like it in any of our shops? Perhaps we could all have style, if we could spend the money that's spent on her. I could tell you a thing or two about Fiona Chard."

"Well, do tell us then," they said, half eagerly, half laughingly, because they did not really believe that Sheila knew anything to Miss Chard's detriment. So Sheila told them exactly what she knew, but now she told it more as fact than as suspicion; but religiously, she did not mention Peter's name.

An unsuspecting Fiona went into her office and towards her desk. Peter had not yet arrived. She settled down to work, but it was an uneasy settling, her ear listening to every footstep along the corridor, her eye constantly upon the door. When at last he did come in, she looked up eagerly, smiling a bright smile at him, wishing him good morning.

"Good morning," he said, but without an answering smile, and crossing at once to his own big desk. "How did you get on yesterday?"

"Quite well. Nothing very unexpected cropped up."

"Did you see Allison for me?"

"Yes. He says he thinks it can be smoothed over, and settled without a fuss after all."

"No prosecution?"

"No prosecution."

"Thank the lord for that. And what about the boy?"

"Mr. Allison agreed with you that the boy should have another chance. He thinks he's a good boy and that he has learned his lesson; but he wants you to put that point of view to Mr. Holwell."

"All right. Thanks, I'll see to it. Do you know if the shop steward has approached the union yet?"

"Not yet. He won't, if he can help it."

"Good. Much better if we can settle our quarrels in our own back yard." Peter began to look at fetters she had set out for him in his desk. "By the way, I shall have some reports for you soon. I wish I'd had a typist with me yesterday—I had to take copious notes. I'll get them into some sort of order as soon as I get time."

No mention of themselves, no indication that he realised she was Fiona Chard, and not any other girl working for him. Strictly businesslike—that was Peter this morning.

So, it seemed, it would be all day; but during the afternoon, Fiona plucked up her courage to broach the subject herself.

"Peter," she said, from the desk where she was typing.

"Yes?" absentmindedly, not even looking up at her.

"About what happened on Friday -"

"Yes?" This time he did look up at her, keenly.

"Did you think any more about transferring me to some different department?"

"No," said Peter. "Why, is that what you want?"

"No, not at all," disclaimed Fiona hastily. "But you said we would talk about it on Monday: I wondered if you were still considering it."

"No, I don't think it in the least necessary. I'm quite sure Sheila will be very discreet; and I assure you I won't let it happen again. I really must apologise to you for having put you in such an awkward position."

"Please don't worry about it," said Fiona, and returned to her work completely taken aback. She felt that she had been confronted by a high, blank wall, and for a few moments a dreadful feeling of loss swept over her. Then she began to reassure herself. This was the office Peter; this was the man who wished to concentrate on his work and not mix his pleasure with business; but it did not completely reassure her. She was left with anxiety and doubt.

He was out of the office when she got ready to go home, but he came in as she was on the point of leaving.

"Just off?" he asked. "Are you in a great hurry?"

"No, not if there's something you want."

"Only one letter. Not a long one. You could take it straight on to the typewriter."

"Certainly," she said. She slipped off the white jacket and threw it on to the visitors' chair which always stood before Peter's desk. Then she seated herself behind the typewriter, put the paper into it, and waited smilingly. Peter began to dictate, walking up and down the office, with his hands in his pockets and a frown of concentration on his brow. Fiona's fingers tapped away confidently, pausing when he paused, but after a while the pause grew so long that she looked up at him enquiringly. He was standing by the visitors' chair looking down at her jacket, and Fiona, following the direction of his gaze, saw that she had thrown it down so that the label in it was clearly visible, and the label was that of a Paris dressmaker so famous as to be known even by mere man. He turned to look at her in time to see the flush that had swept up to her forehead, but he said nothing then. He finished dictating his letter, signed it and watched Fiona put it in its envelope and stamp it. -When she went to pick up the jacket once more, he said:

"Do you always buy your clothes in Paris?"

She decided that there was something lacking in friendliness in his voice, and it puzzled her.

"No," she replied. "Of course not."

"Somebody buys them for you?" he said, and it was hardly a question—more of a statement of fact.

"Somebody did buy this for me, yes," admitted Fiona, wondering if he had now discovered who she was and if this discovery accounted for his new unfriendliness and his determination to remain impersonal. She had an idea that Peter would avoid the company of an heiress, especially one whose father ran the kind of business in which Peter himself was interested.

"The same somebody who buys you Bond Street picnic hampers?"

"I knew that hadn't escaped you," said Fiona.

"And perhaps even bought your car for you?" insisted Peter.

Fiona flushed again. He was certainly on the track of her identity, if he had not already discovered it.

"I can't deny it," she said, searching feverishly in her mind for a plan of action, when the denouement arrived.

"Even -" Peter hesitated a moment, then plunged on: "Even a diamond necklace?"

"Diamond necklace?" she parried, having forgotten that she had worn it at the dance.

"Wasn't it real diamonds?" he asked her.

She remembered then.

"Yes," she confessed. "I must admit I didn't think anybody would know."

Peter turned away from her, feeling sick at heart.

Fiona waited a few moments. Surely this was not the end of a conversation? Surely something more was to come? But apparently not, for Peter had returned to his desk and was sorting out papers. He sorted them unseeingly, but Fiona did not know that. She said in dismay:

"Well, what if I have had a few valuable presents? Is there- anything so important in that?"

"Of course not," said Peter. "What you do is entirely your own affair. Don't let me keep you—there's nothing more this evening."

"But Peter—" she cried, perplexed, hurt and anxious.

What she would have said was interrupted by the opening of the door and the appearance of Mr. Holwell. He came in carrying a number of flat folders, and Peter rose to give him a chair at the desk.

"Sorry to keep you in the evening," said Mr. Holwell, "but there's not much peace during the day to sort it all out."

"I quite agree," said Peter. "Now is the best time."

Fiona had put on her jacket and had gone to the desk to pick up her bag.

"I begin to believe we can see daylight at last," said Mr. Holwell, and the contents of the folders were spread out all over the desk. "My word, it's been a headache, has this."

"And we're not out of the wood yet, I'm afraid," said Peter.

Fiona went to the door.

"You're sure you don't want me?" she asked.

"Sure, thank you," replied Peter.

"Good night, then. Good night, Mr. Holwell."

The men said good night and were at once absorbed in their files. Fiona closed the door behind her and for a moment leaned against it, feeling very despondent, very discouraged. Something seemed to have roused suspicion and distrust in Peter, but she could not imagine what it was. Simply that she had a few valuable possessions? But then why shouldn't she have? They might have been given her by well-to-do relations: everybody had important occasions in life, such as twenty-first birthdays or special achievements which could be marked by present-giving. Why should these presents alone make him so unfriendly? Was he so completely determined to get on by his own efforts that even the outward signs of a certain prosperity could put him off? But even if they put him off, there was no reason why they should make him actively unfriendly. Fiona did not like it at all. She walked slowly to where her car was parked, thinking over all that had been said between them that day, and came finally to the remark that he had made concerning Sheila. Simple and brief, all he had said was: "I'm quite sure Sheila will be discreet." But what made him sure? He hadn't been sure on Friday; but then since that incident on Friday, he and Sheila had partnered each other in a brilliant tennis match. Fiona had heard all about it from several sources. They had apparently been the admiration of the whole firm. They had a friendship which ante-dated her own arrival here, and she had no means of knowing how deep or firm a friendship it was. An aching jealousy sprang up in her.

She drove home slowly, extremely depressed. There was nobody at home, except cook and the gardener, and they were both snug in the kitchen. But the rest of the house was quiet and empty. Even the fresh flowers everywhere could not give it an occupied air. Fiona opened the piano and played a few notes, then did not want to play and wandered into the garden. She occupied herself until dinner time by cutting roses to take to Mrs. Heeley; but she ate dinner by herself and the evening stretched out interminably. She was not usually lonely when alone, but tonight she was aware of an aching emptiness. Walking in the garden, going up to bed early with a book, preparing herself for the night—as she did all these things, Fiona went on wondering what had caused the changed attitude in Peter.

Unfortunately, the lack of friendliness persisted. Day after day, the businesslike attitude was the only one. Peter was busy and he kept Fiona busy, but now all speech between them was tinged with reserve, their names were formal and Fiona thought that Peter had no difficulty now in keeping away from her. And the longer this state of affairs persisted, the harder she found it to keep away from him. She began to have more sympathy for Diana Cray, who had completely lost her head about him—it would be only too easy to do. Fiona stole glances at him when he was completely unaware of her; when he was telephoning, when he was absorbed in the papers before him, when he was in conference with people, or interviewing them. She now knew his appearance off by heart, the dark thick hair, the shape of his eyebrows, dark lashes over deep, dark eyes, the set of his shoulders, the movements of his hands—even the lines of his face, the frown of absorption or the frown of irritation, the creases that appeared when he smiled his attractive, warm smile. Silently, she sent appeals to him across the room sometimes: Darling, darling Peter, end this indifference; notice me as you noticed me before. But the thought-waves did not reach him, or they had no effect, for her pleas remained unanswered.

It was a relief to her, in her own frustration and unhappiness, to be able to bring pleasure into somebody else's life; and this she knew she was doing for the Heeleys. She took Mrs. Heeley for a drive in the country, going slowly so that she would miss nothing. All three amused themselves by choosing the cottage that Kathy and her mother would like to live in, and although at the end of the afternoon Mrs. Heeley was quite exhausted, she had enjoyed it so much that Fiona promised to repeat it. She took roses from the garden to brighten that poor living- room, and eggs and fruit regularly; and more than once, Kathy had joined Fiona for a picnic lunch by the stream in the wood.

As they became friendlier, and Kathy, in the course of conversation, let fall many details of her own life, Fiona began to realise just how much devotion Kathy had for her mother. Apparently, the lack of suitors of which Kathy had once complained was due more to her discouragement of them thin to their own reluctance, for what good was it for Kathy to have romantic notions when she would always have her mother to support? And not only to support, but to look after too? It was too much to expect of modern young men—that was Kathy's attitude, and since her mother was very dear to her, she was prepared, apparently, to spend the rest of her life caring for her. This struck Fiona as being very hard, and she herself brought the topic into the light of day.

"What happened to that young man from K.J.'s office who was so attracted to you on the night of the dance?" she asked. "Wasn't he the one who wanted you to go to the cinema with him?"

"Yes, but I didn't go."

"Why not?"

"Too many difficulties."

"If you're thinking of your mother, Kathy, I'd be happy to spend occasional evenings with her so that you could go out."

"It isn't that, but it's awfully good of you to think of it. It's just that it's hardly worth starting anything; it always fizzles out sooner or later and that sort of upsets me."

"It wouldn't always fizzle out, Kathy. Not with the right kind of man."

"The kind of man who'd care to take on my particular problems would have to be an angel—and he doesn't exist. I don't mind—overmuch."

"Kathy, don't be a dolt. Of course you mind. Any girl would. I do wish you would go with this young man—what was his name—I've forgotten?"

"Derek Paterson. Really much too high hat for me."

"He's not high hat a bit. I think he's a really nice sort. Well, I do wish you'd go with him, and I'll spend the evening with your mother. I do think you should give these people a chance, anyway."

"He probably won't ask me again."

"You don't give people a chance to show how nice they are —you probably snubbed the poor man. Next time he asks you, you go with him. Promise me."

"All right, I promise. My mother is always on at me in the same way. She wants me to have fun while I have the opportunity."

"And Kathy, may I say something without making you cross?"

"That depends."

"I wish you'd let me give you a few nice things that Elspeth and I have no more use for. Now, please, don't be angry—"

"I'm not angry. Only—sort of—let down."

"I know. It's maddening of me—but Kathy, it is between friends."

Kathy smiled.

"All right," she said, "it's between friends, and I'm not angry, but I won't have them all the same. In any case, you're rather high-headed giving away your sister's things."

"Elspeth would love you to have them." Fiona looked across the picnic hamper and the soft green grass to where Kathy was sitting, and spoke on impulse: "Kathy, are you good at keeping secrets?"

"If I want to be," said Kathy, looking enquiringly at her friend.

"Do you remember showing me that picture in The Tatler a little while ago?"

"Yes—a Miss Chard and Mr. Maldon in front of the house they would live in after their marriage. I remember it very well, because I thought then it might be some relation of yours."

"It was. She's my sister—Elspeth."

Kathy stared at her in surprise.

"But that house—it was like a castle!"

"Well, George is the heir. It will all be his one day, but after their wedding they're going to have the east wing."

"And that Miss Chard—she was the daughter of the steel king Chard," said Kathy, astonished.

"Yes."

"Then you are, too."

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Then what on earth are you doing in this firm?" demanded Kathy.

"According to my father, I'm enlarging my experience, seeing more of the world, and meeting new people. Which, of course, is quite true. I wouldn't have met you if I hadn't come here. And I'm finding it enormously interesting."

"Well, well -Honestly, I'm flabbergasted!"

Fiona laughed.

"I wanted to tell you, because it didn't seem quite honest not to, now that we are such good friends."

Kathy looked doubtful at that.

"And so that you wouldn't be so worried about having a few of Elspeth's things. I wish you could have mine, but they wouldn't fit you. Do take them, Kathy, you could look so lovely in them."

So Kathy, somewhat unwillingly, accepted a suitcase full of attractive clothes, and appeared behind her reception counter wearing a grey tailored dress that was simple enough, in all conscience, but with well-cut flattering lines. "I don't suppose I look so very different," she said to Fiona, "but I feel terrific."

The warm glow created in Fiona by her friendship with Kathy, however, did little to dispel the more general bleakness of her present outlook. Peter continued cold and impersonal. And Guy came home.

Guy had added to his fortnight several days of holiday due to him, feeling that, while the moment was so propitious, and all the Chards so favourably inclined towards him, he ought to make the most of it. So he stayed until he could return with Mr. Chard, and they travelled to London together.

There Guy had to stay, since he was due back at his office the following morning, but he sent Fiona a message that he would telephone her that evening, and Mr. Chard went, with the message, back to Ingleden House, reaching it in time for dinner.

"So nice to have you back, Dad," said Fiona, kissing him. "I was beginning to be a bit fed up with having the house to myself."

"I expect you were. Never mind, Fiona, your three months will soon be up, and then you can take a holiday wherever you like. I'll give you a nice fat cheque to cover it."

"You're an angel. But, as a matter of fact, I don't think I shall be leaving at the end of my three months."

"No? You interest me, Fiona. Tell me more."

"You go and remove the travel stains, and hurry down to dinner, because I'm starved. Then I'll tell you more."

They sat down to dinner together in the gracious Hepplewhite room, the lit candles in the silver candelabra spilling soft light on the big bowl of roses between them. And they talked like two old friends, Fiona asking him about Portofino, and her father soon coming round to what she had said before dinner.

"Well," said Fiona, "I really do find it interesting, and I want to stay on."

"Good for you. But what about this engagement? What about getting married to Guy?"

"There is no engagement, Dad; and you knew very well that nothing was decided about marriage."

"Can it be, Fiona, that you've changed your mind?"

Fiona looked at him in the candlelight and he saw that all was not well in Fiona's world.

"Yes I have changed my mind, Dad, but goodness knows what I can do about it."

"You mean you don't want to marry Guy?"

"I don't want to."

"And good reasons to support your change of mind?"

"I'm not in love with him, darling."

"The best reason of all. How did you find it out?"

Fiona hesitated. She was not yet ready to tell him about Peter, of her having fallen in love.

"I suppose it was slowly borne in on me; anyway, I know that I really don't want to. But how I shall break it to Guy, I can't imagine."

"By the way, he's going to ring you up this evening."

Fiona sighed.

"Yes, and I know he'll want to come for the week-end; and trouble will begin for me."

"If there's anything I can do, Fiona -"

"Thank you, darling, but this is something I have to So for myself."

"Well, any time you need anything—if if s only advice -

Now tell me what's been happening in the firm while I've been away."

"Your firm, or mine?"

"Yours." He laughed. "I know all about mine—I keep in touch, Fiona, I keep in touch."

So she told him all about her own job, and about the problem of redistributing the men, and how the installation of the new machinery was finished, and the lists would be going up any day now, and then would come the testing time; then they would know for certain if things would go right or wrong. Mr. Chard listened, and asked questions, and gave his own point of view, and listened to Fiona's, which he realised was Peter Webber's. And her talk was full of Peter this and Peter that. "Peter says ..." and "Peter thinks. . ." It was obvious to her father that Fiona was deeply interested in this Peter, whether she realised it herself or not.

"What sort of man is this Peter?" he asked her.

"But I told you that at the beginning, Dad. He's tall, dark and handsome and wrapped up in his work."

"To the exclusion of you?" asked her father.

"Oh, he's not interested in me," she said bitterly, and her father looked at her more keenly. There was a problem somewhere. Was it Peter Webber? he wondered. He felt an interest in this young man—he would like to meet him.

The telephone bell rang in the hall.

"I'll take it," said Fiona. "I expect it's Guy."

It was Guy, and they talked for some time. Fiona was glad that it was possible to disguise one's feelings on the telephone. She asked questions, because that was the easiest way to prevent Guy from asking them; and he found himself giving her details of his holiday and of his journey until he was exasperated.

"Fiona, I missed you terribly," he said, "and I can't wait to get down and see you again. When may I come?"

"Whenever you like, Guy. We're going to be here this weekend. Come on Saturday afternoon."

"I'll be there. You can't know how I'm looking forward to it, darling."

When she had rang off, Fiona stood in thought for a while. She must invite some other people for Saturday, even perhaps for the week-end. She could not so soon be alone with Guy, practically for a whole week-end. Perhaps the Thornleys would come at short notice. The local friends could be roped in for tennis and for dancing on Saturday. Sooner or later she must tell Guy how she felt, and the sooner the better; but She did not know if she would be able to screw her courage up to the point.

Her father called to her that the coffee was in, and was getting cold, and she walked slowly back to him. He poured out her coffee for her, and as She went to take it from him, he put an arm about her.

"Don't keep him dangling," he said. "Tell him as soon as possible."

"Yes, I will," she said, looking very depressed.

"Better to admit a mistake than to live with it," he told her. "But all the same, I'm sorry for him. Poor devil."

Fiona also felt sorry for him, and did not at all look forward to breaking such doleful news to him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

GUY'S sports car screamed to a sudden stop in front of Ingleden House, and Guy looked at the other cars assembled there. He recognised only one of them, the little red sports car belonging to the Turley sisters; girls who had grown up with Elspeth and Fiona in the same vicinity; but the others indicated to him that he was unlikely to have much time alone with Fiona. He could hear voices from the direction of the tennis court, and, leaving his bag in the car for the moment, he walked round the side of the house, through the formal garden and the screen of rhododendrons and azaleas, to where the party was gathered.

He stood, as yet unseen, looking about him, feeling again the satisfaction that Ingleden House and its grounds always gave him. The well-kept gardens, the vista beyond, the attractive elm-boarded summer house beside the tennis court, big enough to accommodate them all for tea, the brightly-coloured deck chairs scattered on the grass, all these things pleased him. The casual hospitality that had no need of cheeseparing, but could afford to indulge its own impulses.

He moved forward towards the court, and Fiona saw him and waved her racquet in his direction, and he joined her group of people, all in white tennis clothes.

"Guy," said Fiona welcomingly, extending her hand to him. He took it warmly in his own and kept it there while he returned the greetings of the others.

"You are brown," said Fiona. "You must have stored up enormous quantities of Mediterranean sun. I must look an awful paleface."

"You look just as lovely as always," he said, "but all the same I do wish you'd been there to store up the sun as well."

"It's most effective with your blond hair, Guy," said Betty Thornley. "I should imagine Elspeth is nearly mahogany by now, isn't she?"

"No, she's beginning to cover up and seek the shade. She's fixed the day for her wedding, and doesn't want to look too dark for it."

"Has she?" asked Fiona, surprised. "And she didn't write to tell me about it. When is it going to be?"

"Towards the end of September. She sent you lots of loving messages, and says she'll be home in a week, so you could have all her news then." He leaned down, as some of the others began to drift away, to whisper in her ear. "I wish it were our wedding, Fiona. Perhaps it could be our engagement—you'll be free of your job by then."

She smiled in answer, feeling that slightly panicky sinking of the heart that was becoming all too familiar. She must not allow him to live longer in a fool's paradise. She began to key herself up to meet a difficult and emotional situation.

Sunday morning and afternoon were spent with the Thorn- leys, but they left for London before dinner, and Mr. Chard drove to a friend's house for dinner and a pleasurably anticipated game of chess, so that, at last, Fiona and Guy were left alone for more than a few minutes. When they had had dinner, and when the coffee tray had been taken away from the drawing-room, and Helga had closed the windows and drawn the curtains, telling Guy could be put off no longer.

The moment Helga had disappeared, Guy reached out. a hand towards Fiona.

"Come here, darling," he said. "What an exasperating and tantalising week-end this has been. People everywhere! But now everybody has gone. Come here, darling."

Fiona was standing on the hearthrug, looking down at Guy in the settee, not taking the outstretched hand.

"There's something I want to talk to you about, Guy," she said, very seriously.

"But not now, darling. Presently. Come here."

As she did not move, he leaned forward and took her hand and pulled her towards him.

"No, wait, Guy. Let me say this."

"Later, later," he said impatiently. "I've waited all day to have you to myself." And he pulled her down into his arms, holding her closely, kissing her thoroughly; making up for the weeks without her. And Fiona was astonished and dismayed at the feeling of revulsion that she experienced. How was it possible, when she had at one time found pleasure in his lovemaking? She tried to escape from his arms, but he held her the more closely, whispering love-words to her.

At length, he was relaxed and quiet, and she moved away from him, into the other corner of the settee.

"Darling," he said, smiling at her. "I did miss you so at Portofino. Such lovely warm nights, with a great yellow moon shining over the sea; nights made for lovers, and we two miles and miles apart."

"Please don't, Guy," she said sadly. "You're only making it all the harder for me to say what I have to say to you."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Why should you find it hard to say anything to me, Fiona? You know there's nothing that I wouldn't understand, coming from you."

"I don't think you'll understand this, Guy. I can hardly understand how the change has come about myself: but I'm not going to marry you, Guy."

There was a long pause, and Guy looked at her perfectly blankly, as if he had not understood a word she said. Then she saw fear in his face, fear of losing her; then a resolve that he could not have heard aright, and that she did not mean what she had said.

"Darling, you didn't mean that," he said.

"I do, Guy. I don't love you. I'm so sorry to have to say it. I've felt it all along, as I often mentioned to you; but you seemed so sure that it would come, that it would be all right, that I allowed myself to be persuaded. I've been feeling more and more sure that it would be a mistake for us to marry; and now I know that it's better to admit a mistake than to try to hide the fact that it is one."

"It isn't a mistake," he said quickly, and Fiona saw that she was in for a long struggle. Guy was not going to accept her verdict. If she had hoped that he would give her up easily, would bow to her judgment and depart, she knew now that hope was vain. He was convinced everything would be all right; was convinced that their marriage would be a great success, that they suited each other wonderfully, that she would come to love him as much as he loved her. He held her to her word. "But I didn't give my word," said Fiona quickly. "Nothing was ever settled." He insisted that they had both understood that only her father's reluctance to approve had kept them, from announcing their engagement. He had never really loved another girl, would certainly never love another in future. Fiona was his all.

It took a great deal of resolution to stand up to him in this mood, but somehow she stood firm. He pleaded. He was plunged into misery at the mere thought of losing her. She could not mean it. She would

think about it and see that her happiness did lie with Guy, as most certainly his was in her keeping, and he would never be happy again without her.

At last, worn out, feeling battered by his arguments and his pleadings, Fiona made her escape and went to bed. She knew now that Guy would not give her up without a long and bitter struggle, and her heart failed her for a moment at the thought of it; but at least a first step had been made. He knew of her intention and she had to stick to it. Perhaps she would have a sufficient breathing space before each renewal of the struggle to gather up her strength.

The next week afforded her a breathing space because Guy was expected to work some overtime, to compensate for the absence of the men now on holiday, and Fiona experienced relief. She worked all day with a businesslike and detached Peter, lunched two or three times with Kathy, returned in the evening to dine with her father, who became daily more interested in the crisis in the works and talked a great deal to Fiona about similar crises in his own working life. He had a good deal to say about the older men like Gosforth, and showed a considerable interest in Peter. Fiona felt the bond between herself and her father very firm and sure in that week before her mother and sister arrived home from Portofino, anxious to get busy on preparations for the wedding of Elspeth and George. And at the week-end, she could honestly put Guy off, since George's family had invited the Chard family for the week-end, so that all wedding arrangements could be fully discussed.

She lunched with Kathy in the canteen one day of the following week—a Kathy looking very chic in a light wool dress of nutmeg brown.

"First time I've worn this one," confided Kathy softly.

"Don't look so surprised, you know it's one of Elspeth's. Does it look right on me?"

"Absolutely right."

"Fiona, are you coming to the cricket dance on Saturday? The last cricket dance of the season?"

"I thought I would," said Fiona, who was hoping desperately that Peter would also be there, might even dance with her, and that the new and apparently impregnable shell of impersonality might be broken. "You too?"

"Well Derek Paterson has asked me."

"Good for you!"

"He also asked me to the cinema on Friday night, but I'll only go on one condition: that you would be free to be with my mother, because I wouldn't want to leave her two evenings running."

"I'd be pleased," said Fiona, who was in truth pleased.

"You're quite sure it's not imposing on you?"

Fiona reassured her on that score, and suggested that Derek Paterson might bring one of his colleagues with him to the dance, since she would be without an escort.

"I should think they'd fall over themselves for the chance," said Kathy, who was completely out of this world at the thought of wearing the white dress that had been one of Elspeth's cast-offs. This was her golden period. She was beginning to bloom. The new dresses were doing a great deal for her: Derek's admiration did much more. She was expanding in this unaccustomed sunshine, and Fiona hoped that happiness might come along for her.

On Friday evening, Fiona sat with Mrs. Heeley in the small living-room, chatting amicably and watching her knit. Fiona's roses graced the table in the middle of the room and the small bureau in the corner, and Fiona herself learned a great deal that evening about the seamy side of life, for Mrs. Heeley, who talked of all her experiences without bitterness, had had a very hard life indeed.

"And all I can do now is knit," she said, holding out for Fiona's inspection the very fine and complicated piece of knitting she was engaged on.

"What is it?" asked Fiona.

"It's a scarf in very fine Shetland wool. An organisation buys them for me and sends them to America. I make twin-sets, too, and shawls for babies. I would very much like to knit a twin-set for you, if you would like to choose a colour and pattern."

"You do them beautifully, but not for me, please. You have enough to do, knitting them for the organisation."

I don't know Why I should ever get miserable, thought Fiona, or discouraged or depressed. I've never had anything really to worry me, as Mrs. Heeley has, or Kathy. She felt humbled. It had not yet occurred to her that her father might have been very wise in advising her to take a job and meet people and see more of the world.

The next evening, she picked up Kathy at her house to drive her to the cricket dance. This time, she had had no scruples about what she should wear. It was only Peter's opinion she cared about, and it seemed that Peter had already divined who she was, or at least had his suspicions about it. So she wore the pink dress that her father had bought her for the Heffners' and the narrow diamond necklace that, unknown to her, had caused Peter so much perturbation. As

soon as they arrived, they were pounced on by Derek and his colleague, and it looked as if they would be monopolised all the evening. Fiona had only one wish, that Peter would be there. Her eyes searched the once more decorated canteen, and found him. With Sheila again, and other friends; immaculate, handsome as ever. Her heart seemed to swell with love for him, and she willed all the time that Peter should come and ask her to dance. But he did not.

The orchestra started the lively music of a Paul Jones, and almost everybody in the room got up to join in.

"A Paul Jones," said Kathy. "Come along, Fiona."

"I think I won't," said Fiona, sitting where she was.

"Oh, do come," Kathy stretched out a hand for her. She was so obviously happy, so enjoying herself, her eyes sparkling, her lips smiling, that Fiona did not care to disappoint her. She joined in, and, for her pains, drew two partners who trod on her shoes, held her awkwardly, and did not interest her at all. But the third time, as she wished wearily that she were at home in the comfort of her own bedroom, she found herself, as the music stopped, exactly opposite Peter, and immediately her heart set up its usual clamour in her. There was nothing for him to do but to put an arm about her waist and dance away with her.

At first, an embarrassed stiffness prevailed. There was nothing like the spontaneity of that first dance together, no immediate affinity, and Fiona was plunged into disappointment. But it could not last, that stiffness. The old alchemy was at work, breaking down the barrier, magically reviving that mutual attraction, so that Peter's arm tightened about her waist forcefully, and Fiona floated against him with a sigh, transported into ecstasy.

When the music stopped, they stood out of the rings of walking people until a dance began, when Peter once more put his arms about her and led her on to the floor. Once, twice more, it happened, as the dancers encored and encored; but at last it ended and couples dispersed to their tables, and Fiona, sighing happily, said:

"Oh, isn't it hot in here?" So that Peter looked about him, saw they were near one of the open doors and led her outside into the cool night, and the soft darkness of the cricket field.

"Lovely," said Fiona, and they turned to walk along the broad path that surrounded the field, meeting now and then other couples similarly strolling. Fiona slipped her hand into his arm, asking for nothing more than the moment, until they came to the deep shade of a group of oak trees, when Peter stopped her with a hand on" hers. She turned into his arms as if she were coming home, and he, for his part, was no longer surprised at her willing response to his overtures. His arms held her with a close strength that almost deprived her of breath, and he kissed her with a passion that held none of his usual consideration, and was lacking in any gentleness. Fiona, however, was beyond analysing his mood. She felt she would drown in ecstasy, and his passion filled a deep need in her, and how long they stood locked together under the great trees, she had no idea. She only knew that she did not want it to end, and that when Peter at last released her, and took his arms away, she felt cold and lonely and deserted, and swayed where she stood.

"Are you all right ? " asked Peter, his voice low.

"Oh, yes," answered Fiona, still inhabiting, another world.

"We'd better go back," he said. "You'll get cold."

She turned to walk beside him, and he put an arm round her shoulders to keep her warm until they came near the building. As

they came into the outer fringe of light from the windows and open doorway, they paused and looked at each other. He saw that she was still drugged with feeling, but even as he watched her, the dreams began to go away from her eyes and the shadows to come back, for Peter puzzled her. If there was a faint smile on his face, it was rather a derisive one, and his eyes remained hard.

"What's the matter, Peter?" she asked.

"The matter with me," he said, "is that I want you."

She hesitated about that. Almost she had said at once: "And I want you too, Peter," but had prevented herself in time. It wasn't quite right, that answer, any more than his statement was quite right. Fiona began to feel, after so much ecstasy, a faint disillusionment.

"You look slightly ruffled," he said with a smile. "If you like to go in first, I'll wait here a little."

"Thank you," she said, putting up her hands to smooth her hair, automatically straightening her dress. "Au revoir, Peter."

"Au revoir" he replied, but made no move towards her, so she went into the canteen, walked round the dancers crowding the floor and into the powder room. Kathy had been looking for her, it appeared, for some time.

"I wondered," said Kathy, "if you would mind very much if Derek took me home afterwards. He wants to."

"Of course I don't mind," smiled Fiona. "Good luck!"

Greatly relieved, she went out at once to her car. She did not want to stay any longer. She wanted only to reach home, and the privacy of her room, and the softness of her bed. She wanted darkness and quiet and to be alone with her thoughts of Peter.

When she reached her peaceful haven, however, and was lying in bed with her eyes wide open to the darkness, she did not feel the content, the happiness, she had expected to feel. Something about Peter had been different this time, and the difference was not one that she liked. She could not put a finger on what was wrong, but his attitude to her had changed. She had quite lost herself, been transported into another world by his lovemaking, but he had been by no means lost. He had seemed almost detached, almost cynical; and that made of desire an undesirable thing.

Surely such a change, thought Fiona, restless and sleepless, could not be entirely due to his suspicions that she was not quite what she seemed; that she was, in fact, heiress to quite a fortune. If his pride revolted at seeming to be a suitor to an heiress, he could avoid her altogether: it was not a reason for cynicism. She remembered that she had told him she needed a job. Perhaps he thought she had lied to him, seeing the job only from its material aspect. But all these things seemed too small a reason for his change, and at last Fiona gave up searching for a reason, and remembered only being in his arms, until she fell into a restless sleep.

It did not help her peace of mind that Guy arrived in time for luncheon the next day, and, whenever he had Fiona to himself, renewed his struggle to get the old footing back. At times he was loving and charming, at other times, pleading and suffering, and Fiona ended the day by feeling completely exhausted. Elspeth's radiance and happiness served to sharpen the conviction that she, Fiona, was making a mess of her affairs.

"Well, my dear," said her father, finding her on the terrace when Guy had gone. "How are you getting on?"

"Dismally, Dad," she said. "Guy just won't take no for an answer."

"I didn't think he would for a moment."

"But why? He can't honestly expect a marriage to be a success if I don't love him."

"I think perhaps I could tell you why, but you wouldn't like it Fiona."

"Oh, you probably think he wants to marry money. You said so before, Dad."

"And still think so. I still don't think he is the right man for you. Even so, if you had loved him, I would have given my consent, and no doubt I would have taken him into my firm and found him a comfortable spot there, and he would have been settled for life. But as you don't love him, Fiona, don't be persuaded into making a fatal mistake."

"You're such a comfort, darling. And you haven't said, I told you so.'

"No, that isn't my way."

"And I still think you are mistaken in Guy. Perhaps it is an attractive thought that the marriage would help him financially, but I'm sure that wasn't the main reason."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," said her father, but Fiona knew by the way he said it that he was still convinced.

She went to bed at what, for her, was an unusually early hour, wondering what Peter had been doing all this week-end and if she had occupied any of his thoughts as persistently as he engrossed hers.

She would not have been altogether pleased to know in what fashion Peter had thought of her; for certainly he had thought of her a great deal. He had wondered, as she had done, if she would be at the dance, looking out for her, and unconsciously looking out for her in

a blue dress, the one she had worn before. So that the vision in delicate pink was a surprise to him, and also a shock; for the ravishing dress, and the diamonds round her neck, were an act of defiance. They said to him quite plainly: what business is it of yours if somebody buys me expensive clothes, expensive "presents? He determined that he would keep away from her, but the Paul Jones had thrown them together, and at once the old magic had worked.

Well, why not? Peter had thought. Perhaps she does get tired of the attentions of an elderly tycoon. Perhaps she does long for youth to match her own, and for a dash of romance. Certainly, her invariable response to him encouraged him to think so. She had never rebuffed him. On the contrary, she came to him, into his arms, as if it was where she longed to be.

Did she really think that she could have her cake and eat it too? Have an elderly, wealthy admirer and a young lover as well, and both at the same time?

More problems crowded in upon him on Monday morning, thick and fast. The new machinery was ready to go; the lists of redistribution were out, and everywhere foremen were in conclave with clusters of men grouped about them. Mr. Jackson had arrived early, but at the moment was keeping out of the way. Mr. Holwell, works manager, and Frank Hawkins, shop steward, were very much in evidence, walking from one group to another, explaining, discussing, and feeling the pulse of the men. Peter would have been there, too, but for the fact that, at a time when he could very well have done without them, three indispensable men from the experimental department called on him, to explain that their chief had been going crazy for a long time, in their opinion, and it had now reached a pass where it was either-or; and when Peter asked what exactly that meant, they said: "He goes, or we go."

This looked too serious a problem to be hastily shelved, so Peter entered into discussion with them, and Fiona took notes of it. Peter had known for a long time, too, how irascible and odd Mr. Alloway had become, and had several times suspected that his staff were pretty near revolt. These three men, two of them quite young," were qualified scientists with promising careers before them. He knew, as they probably well knew themselves, that they would not have too much difficulty in getting equally good jobs elsewhere, and he did not want to lose them. It was Alloway who was at fault, but Alloway had been with the firm most of his life, had, in the past, rendered it good service, and thought himself in an impregnable position. Peter said he would see what could be done, and would they hold their fire in the meantime.

"Give me a couple of days' grace," he said. "We've got this change-over in the works starting today, and there may be fireworks there."

"Yes, we're sorry to pile our worry on to that, but it had to be now or never, because Alloway expects us to tackle the new job in the old fashioned way he's been pursuing for years, and won't see what a dead loss it is. We'll carry on and do it our way. You agree?"-

"Well, of course, Alloway will be hopping mad."

"He certainly will."

"All right. I'll think about it."

The men went away, and Peter sat in thought for a few moments.

"I'd better ring K.J. about this," he said to Fiona. "Make sure their new way is the right way. And then what? Get old Alloway to go and see the M.O. ? He wouldn't, of course—he can't see there's anything odd or irascible or dictatorial about his behaviour. Get him to take a holiday? Or a prolonged rest? He might, perhaps, see the red light and try to behave himself." He was really thinking aloud

rather than talking to Fiona. "We can't lose those three, and we can't expect them to do good work under the present trying conditions." He paused, looking absently at Fiona as he pondered. "Two trouble spots in this firm," he went on.' "The drawing office just now, and the experimental."

"And the works surely?" added Fiona.

"Yes, I wanted to get down there. I'm hoping today will prove it's not a trouble spot. I'm praying the change-over goes smoothly. I'll ring Holwell -"

He spoke to Mr. Holwell on the telephone, and appeared to be temporarily reassured.

"All quiet at the moment," he said. "Holwell expects the men to chew it all over at lunch-time. Signs of settling down though. Keep your fingers crossed, Fiona, keep your fingers crossed."

"I will. Do you want these notes typed?"

"Yes, to make some sort of sense chronologically, if you can. Well, let's give K. J. another headache."

He reached for the telephone, and Fiona began to type her notes, pausing frequently to rearrange the data she had taken down. Peter, as he waited some time on the managing director's convenience, watched her at work. She was wearing a plain suit of grey, with a neat blouse of pale grey underneath it—the well-dressed, unobtrusive secretary. Into his mind flashed a picture of her as she had looked on Saturday, and with it the memory of her in his arms under the great oak trees in the darkness. "She's a lovely girl," he thought, "but if what Sheila says is true, what a waste, what a waste." And he remembered all the evidence that seemed to point to its being true.

Mr. Jackson's voice recalled him to the present, and to the fresh problem. He dragged his thoughts and his eyes from Fiona, and gave himself to his work.

As he put down the receiver, he stood up.

"I'm going into the works," he said to Fiona. "And then to the M.O. to have a chat with him about Alloway. Then, if there's time before lunch, to see Alloway himself. If not before, I'll do it directly afterwards. But if you hear anything from Holwell or Hawkins, ring me at once, will you?"

"Yes, I'll do that," she promised.

"Or anything unusual, of course."

"Yes, I'll look after it," she said.

She watched him as he gathered one or two papers from his desk, picked up his pen, fastened his jacket and turned towards the door. Purposeful, she thought. All on the qui vive. I really do believe he's rather enjoying himself this morning. There's power in him. He's waiting to tackle anything that turns up.

He sketched a brief salute in her direction and went away.

CHAPTER NINE

KATHY called in to see if Fiona was going to lunch in the canteen, and the two girls went together.

"I want to be as quick as possible today," said Fiona.

"Tremendous activity in this firm today," agreed Kathy.

"Lots of people calling, wanting everybody else. I left young Evans at the desk—I only hope he copes."

"Well, how did you get on on Saturday?" asked Fiona.

"O—oh!" A rapturous sigh. "I had a wonderful time. I missed you, though, what happened to you?"

"I'd had enough, and as you had an escort to see you home, I went."

"That dress, Fiona! Yours, I mean. Mine, too, if it comes to that. Perhaps you didn't notice the famished looks, but they were balm to me. I've so often been the famished one myself. I felt like a million dollars, and of course when you begin to feel like that, other people think you do, too."

"Derek, for instance?"

"Well, yes, Derek for one." Kathy hesitated, and then looked at Fiona with a rueful smile. "I did rather put Derek to the test on Saturday. As he was taking me home, I told him all about Mother, and how it made managing a very tight squeeze for us. And I let him walk me right to the front door, for the first time, and said to him. 'Yes, I live in one of these horrid hovels—it's all we can afford.' Poor Derek, he did look a bit horrified. After all, he's one of K.J.'s young men, been to Oxford and all that, and probably has very good prospects. But—well, to tell you the truth, Fiona, I am rather fond of

him, and if he's going to back out, I'd rather he backed out sooner than later. I wouldn't blame him at all."

"Did he ask to see you again?"

"Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. I rather expected the Well- I'll-be-seeing-you technique, but he asked me to go out with him on Friday; so I told him my holiday was starting on Saturday, so we would leave it until afterwards. That gives him a chance to drop out gracefully if he wants it."

"What a good sport you are, Kathy, but I hope he doesn't want it. I didn't know you were going on holiday."

"It wasn't worth mentioning,. we don't go away. And, anyway, it's only a week because I had my other fortnight in the spring when Mother was poorly, so that I could look after her."

"You mean you're just going to stay at home?"

"Yes. I can borrow a wheelchair from the vicar, and take Mother out sometimes—which will be a nice change for her."

"And you will cook and clean and polish and wash up, and then take your mother out in a wheelchair?"

"Yes, and don't sound so horrified. It will be a change from the office, anyway."

"Well, you just won't," said Fiona. "I shall go straight home after the office and arrange for you both to stay in a very pretty country cottage I know. Lovely country, fresh eggs and vegetables, and nothing to do."

"Don't be silly! I can't afford it."

"This woman will do anything for me—it will only cost you your food, and she grows fruit and vegetables in her garden. Her husband was our old gardener, and when he died, my father let her keep the cottage and paid her a small pension. She would be pleased to have you both. It's settled. You go home and prepare your mother, and I'll drive you both out there on Saturday."

"You're very bossy," said Kathy, her voice full of longing.

"Terribly bossy," said Fiona cheerfully. "You just have to do as you're told."

"It's not for me," said Kathy, looking as if she would burst into tears right there in the canteen. "It's my mother—she would love it so."

"All right, cheer up, it's settled. Look, I'm not going to wait for pudding, I want to get back. Do you mind?"

Fiona made her escape, not so much because she thought anybody would be clamouring for attention in her office, as to escape Kathy's embarrassment and thanks, and give her time to recover herself. Peter was not in the office, so she began to track him down by telephone in case she needed him. He had just arrived, apparently, in the experimental department and was going in to see Mr. Alloway.

No sooner had Fiona turned to her work than a tap on her door was followed by the entrance of Gosforth, a man who had been with the firm for many years, was a good worker, but always inclined to be rebellious. It had seemed that he was going to make trouble over this change of work, but Peter and she hid hoped they were over that particular hurdle. Fiona, glancing at him, saw that they were not. Gosforth was looking both grim and mutinous.

"Mr. Webber?" he enquired dourly.

"He's with Mr. Alloway. I expect him back quite soon."

"How soon?" asked Gosforth.

"I can't say exactly. You could come back a little later, and I'll tell him you're coming, or, if you prefer it, you can wait."

"I'll wait," he said grimly.

Fiona got up and offered him the visitors' chair. Might as well keep him in a good mood for Peter, she thought, but, as he had most impolitely kept his cap on his head, she could not resist saying:

"You can hang your .cap on the stand there, Mr. Gosforth."

A little shamefaced, he pulled it off, and, from where he was sitting, skimmed it across the room on to the hook. Surprised, Fiona could not help laughing.

"Good shot," she said as she returned to her work.

"I'd like to take a good shot at a few people I could mention," he said; then, in belated apology: "I get used to wearing my cap at my job. There's always a draught in that shop, and I'm not as young as I once was."

"Fiona smiled at him and sat down at her desk. Not so bad as he appeared, she decided. But feels he's been relegated: has a prejudice against the packing department; has a thick streak of obstinacy somewhere. She said:

"I hope you haven't come along to make things difficult for Mr. Webber."

"I've come along to let Mr. Webber know he's made things difficult for me," he said.

"I don't see how he's done that. He went to considerable lengths, during the sort-out, to find you just the right kind of job."

"Yes, I can imagine that," said the man sceptically. "I'm a craftsman and he's put me in the packing department."

"You haven't been doing a craftsman's job for more than two years, Mr. Gosforth, but you were quite satisfied."

"I was in my right department," he said.

"And now that department doesn't exist any more. All the men have had to change to something different."

"But a good many of them are on the new machines."

"The new machines have to be learned, Mr. Gosforth, and it's right that the younger men should learn them. It would be very heavy work for you, and as you said yourself, you're not as young as you were. Mr. Webber talked it over with Mr. Jackson, and they picked you out for this other job. You've got men under you, too; and you know you could be settled in this for the rest of your working life."

"It isn't only me—there's plenty more dissatisfied with what they've been given."

"They would take their cue from you, Mr. Gosforth, and you know that. They respect you as a man of integrity and they know you've had a lot of experience; if you came into line, they would, too."

"And that would suit the management very well."

"Of course it would; and in the end, it would suit you, too. Prosperity for the company means prosperity for the men; and bad times for the company mean bad times for the men. You've heard that often enough in the last weeks, I'm sure. But I don't need to tell

you all this, Mr. Gosforth. You're an old hand, you know it all; yet you want to throw a spanner in the works."

"I don't want to throw a spanner in the works," he protested.

"Well, it isn't anything to do with me, of course," said Fiona, who had been busy for the last few minutes making it something to do with her, "but I should have thought it was in your own best interests not to make trouble."

"I don't want to make trouble, I only want my due."

"They feel they've given you your due, Mr. Gosforth. They all feel you've got into a good job. And if you don't accept it, and you do stir up trouble, it isn't only for yourself, but all your workmates too."

He sat lost in thought Fiona watched him for a moment and then returned to her work. She typed busily until Peter returned; and Peter did not look at all surprised to find Gosforth waiting for him. He had been prepared. He braced himself to meet trouble.

Gosforth rose to his feet. Peter went to his desk, saying briskly:

"Ah, Gosforth. What can I do for you?"

Gosforth hesitated. Then he walked to the stand where his cap was hanging.

"I don't think there's anything you can do for me, thanks, Mr. Webber," he said. "I don't think I'll bother you after all."

Peter carefully concealed his surprise.

"No bother," he said cheerfully. "If there's anything I can clear up—"

"No thanks." Gosforth turned to the door. Peter walked towards it with him.

"Well," he asked, "how's the change-over going to work, Gosforth? Think we shall get over it without too many spills?"

"Everything seems pretty quiet at the moment, sir," he said dourly.

"Let's hope it stays that way," said Peter. "Think you'll settle down in the new job yourself?"

"I suppose it's a case of have to," said the man, still dour. "Chaps don't care for a change when they get to my age, though."

"You're adaptable enough," said Peter. "You haven't got set in your ways—you'll manage." And when Gosforth had gone, he turned to Fiona in amazement. "What made him change his mind?" he asked.

"I did," she said, smiling at him.

"What do you mean, you did? He came here spoiling for trouble."

"Yes, I know. But I talked to him."

"Oh, come along now," said Peter. "Give. Give."

"I simply talked to him very sweetly of what the changeover meant. He must have heard it dozens of times, but the fact that a mere girl could grasp that it was for the best, and so on and so on, apparently helped him to see sense. You know, Peter, I'm not too bad with personnel."

"Oh Fiona." He smiled at her. "Now let's talk sense," he said. "What happened?"

She repeated the conversation word for word.

"Well," said Peter, "we've been saying that to him for weeks."

"Apparently not with my charm," she said, laughing.

"Apparently not," said Peter. He looked at her oddly. "This fatal charm," he said, and repeated it: "This fatal charm. It seems to get us all."

"But," said Fiona, suddenly serious, "only intermittently."

"Only," said Peter, "when we can't keep our heads."

"Why should you care so much about keeping your head, Peter?"

He was very thoughtful as he looked at her.

"You aren't suggesting that I should lose it, are you?" he asked curiously.

"Not exactly," she said. They were both quiet, feeling their way, knowing that under this talk, there was a real desire to find out more about each other.

Then the telephone bell interrupted them, and Peter turned to answer it.

"Holwell? Yes, Webber here. Oh, yes . . . Yes, that's right. Yes, he's just left us . . . Nothing wrong, as far as I can tell. .. Yes, so I understood. He seems to have thought better of it. . . Oh, I should wait a while and see. Make sure about it... It does seem like it, at the moment, but perhaps we 'had better not congratulate ourselves too soon ... Yes, you're right there . . . Who did you say? K.J.? Oh, yes, I'm going right away, I'll see you there."

He rang off, and turned to Fiona.

"K.J." he said. "I don't know how long I'll be there. Well, Fiona, I must congratulate you."

"Thank you," said Fiona.

Once more, she had the office to herself. There was no doubt . about it, an office was no place for romance, no place for personalities. People barged in, telephone bells rang, the prosaic world insisted on interrupting; and always at the wrong moment. Perhaps, if she stayed until Peter came back, they could resume their conversation where they had left off. She had plenty to do, for her day had been so interrupted. She would work late and get all these letters off today. So that when Peter returned from an extended meeting with the managing director and the various heads of departments, she was still there and still busy.

He was not alone, however. Holwell, Hawkins and Ormesby were with him, and for some time they discussed the new arrangements in the firm. Fiona was determined to outstay the visitors. Perhaps she would be unlucky, perhaps Peter would go with them, but she would wait and see.

Peter did not go with them. When he had seen them out, he turned to Fiona.

"It isn't absolutely necessary, you know, for you to get those off today."

"I preferred to," she said. "I don't like too much to accumulate. Perhaps you'll sign them before you go?"

"Certainly." He sat and worked at 'his desk while she finished the letters, and then signed them for her. "You take your job quite seriously, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Why shouldn't I? It interests me."

"That conversation of yours with Gosforth, for instance. The fact that you should even be interested in persuading him to do the right thing—it surprised me. I must say you showed considerable skill with the old boy."

"Skill? You said before it was charm."

"You said that. I agreed with you."

"You said it was a fatal charm. I can't think why."

"You haven't searched hard enough for the reason."

"You speak in riddles, Peter; and you act in riddles. I don't understand you."

The letters were all in their stamped envelopes, and stuck down ready for posting. She put them in a neat pile, and looked up to see why he did not answer. He was looking at her in a thoughtful and speculative fashion. He put out a hand to her, and, when she took it, pulled her gently nearer to him.

"Perhaps I don't understand you either," he said. "Fiona, why don't you tell me about yourself ? "

She stiffened.

"Why do you imagine there is anything to tell you about myself?" she asked, not looking into his eyes but down at their joined hands.

"Well—isn't there?" he asked, his voice very deep.

She looked up then, with sudden impatience.

"I don't think there is," she said. "Why do I have to tell you, when you already know?"

So there it was. It was out. The thing he had always tried to believe was not true, she now admitted was true. Anger blazed up in him, and she saw it in his eyes. His hands tightened on hers in a furious grip.

"I don't know why you should be so angry," she said.' "It isn't as if I'd done anybody any harm. It's entirely my own affair."

He was furiously angry, yet still found her maddeningly desirable. He turned from her abruptly, determined to let her go, but she put a hand on his arm to detain him, and when he turned back, she was looking at him so pleadingly that he caught her roughly into his arms.

"You want to have the best of both worlds," he said grimly, and kissed her with his anger still working in him, in this ruthless, inconsiderate fashion that Fiona did not like, so that she wrenched herself away from him, also angry now.

"Don't," she protested. "I won't be treated like that."

"Like what?" he asked her.

"So brutally."

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly.

She looked at him angrily and saw that he was not at all sorry. Yet she also saw something else, something that was wounded in him, some hurt that his anger was trying to hide. Hurt pride, she concluded, what could it be but hurt pride? So she said, slowly:

"False pride, Peter, false pride."

He said:

"You might just call it an old-fashioned sense of moral values."

He turned away from her, preparing to leave the office. Fiona, a little at a loss, still thinking he referred to the fact that she had hidden her identity, said:

"Well, I do think you're exaggerating." And at that, he gave up. Better to let her go altogether. How could one reconcile such a statement with her own frank, attractive office self? He had been woefully mistaken in her. Until these last few minutes he had not believed what Sheila had told him: he had felt convinced that there was a simple explanation. Yet now, Fiona herself admitted it, and, worse still, seemed to see no particular wrong in it. He felt an ardent longing to have known her before this other man; but that was impossible. He said:

"Let's leave it, Fiona." He locked the private drawer of his desk, put away various papers, gathered up what he wanted to take, and turned to the door. "Good night," he said, and was gone.

Fiona felt curiously let down. Peter did not act at all like a man in love, but much more like a man in the spell of a physical attraction, for which one half of him felt contempt. This was not only unflattering to Fiona, but it held little hope or promise for the future. Guy would never have treated her as Peter had just treated her; yet she could not feel angry with Peter; her heart found excuses for him. This had been quite a day for him. The change-over of personnel, for which he was chiefly responsible, seemed to have gone off successfully— already an aura of approbation was surrounding him, and Mr. Jackson himself had congratulated him on his perspicuity and foresight. It must have been a good moment for Peter— a good day altogether.

There was certainly a relief from tension in the works; and although Peter had other problems to occupy him, including that of the

scientists in the experimental departments, and the rather embarrassing one of having to talk to a young typist about to have a baby, the main problem had been overcome and a great weight lifted from his mind. When Fiona saw him lunching in the canteen three days running, and each time with Sheila Pont, she realised that he was much more carefree than he had been during these last few weeks; and it was reflected in the laughter and the lively conversation that seemed to be always present at that table, where they were sometimes joined by other people, and sometimes alone.

Concerning herself, he also seemed to have come to some decision. He was friendly and open-minded about all office matters with her, and consistently polite; but gently ignored the existence of any other relationship between them. They discussed the experimental department, and what could be done to deliver the scientists from Mr. Alloway's old-fashioned prejudice; they discussed the young typist and her future; but they did not talk about themselves. .

Peter had been invited to dine at Mr. Jackson's London flat on Saturday, and was openly pleased about it when he mentioned it to Fiona.

"It's going to be quite a party," he said, "with the chairman there, old Burkitt himself, and one or two of the more influential directors. All their good ladies, too, of course—and some young ones, I hope, as well. It's a very definite pat on the back for me, I suppose."

"I'm glad," said Fiona. "You deserve it, Peter, after these weeks."

"It's quite amusing, to a detached observer, to observe the clearly defined steps by which one climbs," reflected Peter. "Not that I'm really detached, of course; but I do try to stand back occasionally and see myself. When I first took on this job, trembling in my shoes, I might tell you, I rarely got beyond the office manager for any sort of consultation. I was quite cock-a-hoop when I had my first one

with the managing director; and still more so the first time I had lunch with him.

This, I suppose, to be invited to dinner at his home, is quite epoch-making."

"And what's the next step?" asked Fiona, smiling.

"Goodness knows. Maybe lunch or dinner with the chairman. Olympian heights."

They laughed together.

"Good climbing," said Fiona, thinking to herself that there must be young men in her father's firm who regarded Mr. Chard as Peter regarded Mr. Burkitt. She was constantly seeing her father in new lights nowadays, and also a new light was thrown on Peter when she thought of him in this way. She had seen from the beginning that he was a man who meant to get on. He was proud of having reached his present position without influence or favour, entirely on his own merit, and he wanted to continue in that way. Obviously, to be involved with herself, the daughter of one of the most influential men in this kind of business, would damage his independence, revolt his pride.

On Saturday morning, when Fiona went to the garage to get her car, it failed to respond to all her efforts, and Matthey, called for hurried consultation, said she would have to leave it with him for the morning. This was especially awkward because it was the day on which Fiona was to drive Mrs. Heeley and Kathy to the cottage; and, even had she cared to drive her father's sumptuous car to the place, it was not available, for Mrs. Chard and Elspeth, caught up in kaleidoscopic preparations for the wedding, needed it for the whole morning. So Fiona telephoned Guy, hoping that he would be able to help.

Guy, fortunately, was free. He was delighted to come to Fiona's assistance, and would pick her up at Ingleden House— he knew that this was tantamount to spending the week-end there, and saw a good opportunity of furthering his campaign with Fiona.

After lunch at Ingleden House, Fiona and Guy went to pick up Kathy and her mother. Fiona had prepared Guy for them, but still he was surprised at the poor little house in the poor little street; and although he was politeness itself, packing in luggage, helping Mrs. Heeley, driving carefully and at less than his usual speed, he was completely uninterested in them; and his indifference communicated itself to Kathy, who became constrained and embarrassed.

They came to the cottage, however, in brilliant sunshine, and it could scarcely have looked more welcoming or attractive. Fiona decided that Guy had better be left in the car to wait for her, and went inside with Mrs. Heeley and Kathy to a very warm welcome from Mrs. Brookes, the wife of the late gardener. Constraint disappeared as they were led into a very comfortable sunlit sitting-room, so full of colour as to be dazzling—with a trellis-patterned carpet, and a wallpaper with roses, and flower-patterned curtains. The mantelpiece was full of ornaments, the chairs boasted crochet antimacassars, and bamboo stands held hanging pots filled with ferns. Yet the effect was one of cheer and comfort and friendliness.

"And the kettle is singing on the hob," said Mrs. Brookes, "and I know it's a bit early for tea, but a cup of tea never did come amiss, did it? So what about it?"

They would love a cup of tea, it appeared.

"But what about your friend?" asked Mrs. Heeley anxiously.

"He can wait," said Fiona lightly. "He doesn't care about tea, and anyway there'll be some up at the house presently." She smiled at

Mrs. Brookes. "And I want to show Kathy your garden, and the brook at the bottom, and the bridge Mr. Brookes built for us when we were little. We used to plague Mrs. Brookes when we were children," she said to Kathy. "She always had the sweetest strawberries in her garden, and she made gingerbread men for us—the only person I've ever known who made them; and the most delicious coconut ice."

She did take pity on Guy, however, to the extent of going to tell him to go on to the house, and she would follow later. Then she walked round the garden with Kathy, while Mrs. Heeley rested; and took her along the brook to the garden of the house, but did not go through the hedge or shrubbery into it, but kept to the fields. Later, she would introduce Kathy to her family. She would choose the moment herself.

Kathy was delighted with everything and prepared to enjoy every moment of her week, but she felt guilty about keeping Fiona now. She did not think that handsome young man would be very patient, and she did not want to be the cause of his anger. So she was a little relieved when Fiona left her, to walk to Ingleden House; and went back to the delightful cottage to find her mother, see the bedroom that had been allotted to them, and to hear from Mrs. Brookes that Guy was the young man everybody expected Miss Fiona to marry.

Guy was indeed impatient. Fiona met him as she walked up the long drive towards the house, and they went round the corner of the house, under the pergola towards the terrace where the family were gathered.

"What ages you've been," he chided.

"Why not? I wanted to stay with them long enough to make them feel at home," said Fiona.

"I can't understand why you want to bother with people like that at all," said Guy.

Fiona did not reply. It took some moments to realise that the silence was a somewhat ominous silence, and then he looked questioningly at her. And he saw at once that he had made a mistake. There was a withdrawn look about her. In that moment, he had himself destroyed any hesitation in her about hurting him. She had long been afraid of hurting him, but it seemed that she had been too sensitive. Guy was not so afraid of hurting people, not so sensitive about them.

"Fiona," he pleaded.

"People like what?" she asked him steadily.

"Darling, I was only impatient because I want you to be with me," he said.

"Kathy Heeley is my friend," she said. "I'm very fond of her and I admire her immensely."

They came to the terrace then, and the family was about to have tea, so that Guy was not able to say more.

"I've had some tea," said Fiona, "but I'll sit and watch you have yours, and hear all the latest news about the wedding."

"Well, the latest news about the wedding," said Elspeth, "is that if you don't go for your fitting for your bridesmaid's dress, you won't be a bridesmaid."

"I'll make an effort, really I will," promised Fiona.

"And George's Aunt Julia has sent us the most wonderful Louis Seize writing table; and a remote great-aunt has sent a Chinese carpet. The thing about marrying into a family like George's is that

there are hundreds of relatives and they're all' stuffed with heirlooms."

"They've sent some lovely old silver," said Mrs. Chard. "You're really such a lucky girl, Elspeth."

Elspeth looked up suddenly, and round at them all.

"I'm lucky," she said, "because I've got George, and not because I've got a Chinese carpet or some early Georgian silver. I would marry George if he hadn't got a penny." Then, feeling that perhaps she had been too serious, she added: "Anyway, before the estate comes to George, there'll be such crippling death duties that George says we shan't have two pennies to rub together."

Fiona sat quietly by, agreeing mentally with her mother that Elspeth was a lucky girl—but for Elspeth's reasons. She was about to marry the man she loved. Fiona sat quietly in her chair, a prey to dejection and sadness, her thoughts winging away to the man she loved.

CHAPTER TEN

FIONA arrived at the office block to find Kathy once more installed behind the reception desk, a Kathy looking very much better for her week's holiday, looking bright-eyed and filled-out and serene, as if her nerves as well as her body had had a good rest. She greeted Fiona exuberantly.

"Oh, Fiona, I had the most wonderful week! And the best part of it was seeing my mother enjoying is so much. She can't stop talking about it—I can see it will be the mainspring of our talk for weeks. We can both never thank you enough."

"You've already thanked me more than enough."

"It really was a thrill. Meeting your family like that, and seeing your home. Gosh, how you can come to this dump to work, I don't know. I never saw such a place like it in my life!"

Fiona laughed.

"You can always be sure of a welcome there," she said.

"I'd be too terrified, unless you were there to hold my hand. I was quite overawed by your mother; but I guess I could get on with your father—he's a dear. Do lunch with me, Fiona, because I can't talk about it to anybody else, and of course I'm absolutely bursting with it."

So they lunched together in the canteen, but as they were sharing a table with other people Kathy could still not talk of the subject nearest her heart at the moment, but as they walked back towards their offices, she said:

"Don't think I keep harping on this, but that week was so marvellous for my mother, because she made a new friend. In our street, there's

nobody really to interest her. The woman next door is very kind, and as she cooks a midday meal for her husband and children, she always cooks" for Mother too, and takes a meal in to her. It saves me cooking when I get home, and so really it pays me to do that. But, at the cottage, she and Mrs'. Brookes got on like a house on fire. Mrs. Brookes says she sometimes gets a bit lonely, in spite of the television. Especially in the winter, when she can't work in her garden much. So she has asked us to go there for Christmas; and although it's three months away Mother is already looking forward to it. When I think of that wheelchair, and the usual routine of a holiday—and then I think of the cottage, and your father's chauffeur coming down to take us for country drives, well—I just overflow."

"It was little enough in all conscience," said Fiona.

"Not to me; but now I won't mention it again, because I know I'm making you curl up with embarrassment. Oh, and do you know Elspeth invited me to her wedding? Would it be all right if I come? Because I would love to see what it's like."

She chattered on, excited, and somehow released. Even as she worked, her thoughts flew back again and again to the week she spent in the country. The freshness of the air, as she hung out of her bedroom window early in the morning, the novelty of feeding the chickens for Mrs. Brookes, of working in a garden, of picking all the apples off the tree where they were already ripe, these were things she had never known before. Nor had she been in any house as large or luxurious as Ingleden House, nor known that such elegant rooms could be lived in so naturally, nor that hospitality and the use of a resplendent car and chauffeur could be offered so casually. Nor had she ever believed that people of such affluence could be so completely devoid of snobbery; and it was a heart-warming thing to discover.

Before she went home, she repaired to the ladies' room to wash and tidy herself, as every other girl in the building did, staggering the time so that the offices were not completely devoid of their feminine clerks and typists and secretaries. Even so, the room was fairly full, and the familiar chatter met Kathy's ears as she went in, the familiar mixture of perfume and powders assailed her senses. She made her way to a washbasin, unfurling her towel, smiling at the girl next to her, when a sentence struck upon her ears, spoken in the voice of one of the older typists.

"J always thought," it said clearly, "that she was a thoroughly nice girl."

"It depends what you mean by nice," said another. "I dare say the men think she's nice."

"Especially the old man," said a new voice, "the gentleman friend."

"Who's being torn to pieces now?" Kathy asked the girl next to her; but it seemed the girl did not hear her, for she began to rub her cheeks with her towel and did not answer.

"No, but really," went on one of the voices, "I think it's disgusting. I wouldn't have anything to do with an old man, not for all the cars and evening dresses and jewels and such." The voices went on, comfortably pulling somebody's reputation to shreds, until Kathy said again:

"Who is this that's causing so much discussion?"

There was a short silence. Sheila Font said:

"Oh, Kathy. We didn't know you were there. I didn't see you come in."

"Well, what of it? I don't imagine it's me." She looked at the faces about her, some of them beginning to be discomfited, one or two of them turning away, and it dawned on her that they were discussing Fiona. She said at once:

"You wouldn't be discussing Fiona Chard?"

"Well, why not?" asked Sheila. "We all know she's your friend—I'm sure "it suits you very well to be her friend—but that doesn't make her sacrosanct."

"Perhaps you'd like to repeat to me what you've all been saying among yourselves. Or haven't you got the coinage of your convictions ? "

"Kathy's getting very supercilious," said somebody. "Tell her, Sheila, what you know about Miss Chard." And Sheila told her as fact what she had merely assumed. But nobody there, curious as they were, had anticipated Kathy's reaction. She just stood there and laughed at them.

"What a lot of silly nonsense," she said. "Fiona will be amused by this. You couldn't have been more mistaken in your life."

"Well, what's your explanation?" asked Sheila.

"I don't intend to give you one. I happen to have been told Fiona's circumstances in confidence; but I can jolly well tell you you're absolutely wrong. If I were you, Sheila, I'd be careful what I said."

"I said," remarked the typist whose voice Kathy had first heard, "that I'd always thought she was a thoroughly nice girl."

"And you couldn't have been more right," said Kathy, and picked up her towel and soapbox, and did not wait to make up her face, but flew back to Fiona.

Fiona was still working in her office when Kathy burst in, finishing a report that Peter wanted that evening.

"Hallo, what's the matter with you?" she asked Kathy.

"Fiona, they're saying the most terrible things about you in this firm—some of the girls are, I mean. Not the nice ones, of course, but some of the others. And I want you to let me tell them the truth. I couldn't, without your permission, because you told me about yourself in confidence. May I tell them who you are?"

"But why?" asked Fiona. "What is this terrible thing they are saying about me?" And when Kathy had finished telling her, she leaned back in her chair, and simply said:

"Oh, no!"

"Yes. And it all started because Sheila Pont saw you in London, shopping in Piccadilly. It all grew from that; and it's grown to pretty big proportions now."

"How ridiculous! It was my father, of course."

"I guessed that."

"How could anybody have such a mind?"

"Especially knowing you. It's just sheer malice. Do let me tell them the truth, Fiona."

Fiona looked at her champion thoughtfully. She was a little depressed at hearing that anybody should wish her ill, should spread unsuitable and untrue stories about her, but it was not important now whether people knew the truth" or not. She thought she had already proved to Peter and to other people here that she could hold down a

job without influence; and Peter had already guessed the truth of her identity. So she shrugged her shoulders, and said:

"You may tell them what you like, Kathy."

"Oh, won't I enjoy that? They'll have gone by now, I daresay; and I have to get back to Mother; but I shall enjoy watching their faces in the morning, especially Sheila Pont's."

Especially Sheila Pont's, thought Fiona, when Kathy had said good night and disappeared. Sheila Pont. It was Sheila Pont who had seen her in Piccadilly with her father, and had jumped to such very wrong conclusions. It was Sheila Pont who was Peter's friend, coming to the firm's dances with him, lunching very often at his table in the canteen; and it was Peter who had said: "Why don't you fell me about yourself, Fiona?" It was Peter who had asked her if she bought all her clothes in Paris, if the car was her own property, if her diamonds were real. Light dawned on Fiona. So much became clear to her; why Peter no longer bothered to treat her with consideration when he took her in his arms; why he thought it necessary not to lose his head about her: oh, so many things. She sat at her typewriter musing, the report forgotten.

Peter Came into the office.

"Finished?" he asked her.

"Oh, Peter," she said.

He looked at her quickly.

"Oh, Peter," she repeated.

"What is it?" he asked her. "Aren't you well?"

She got up from her desk and crossed to face him. He watched her coming, and could not make her out at all. She held put her hands to him, but he did not take them. He was watching her with an odd mixture of perplexity and keenness.

"Peter, you've been thinking an awful thing about me," she said. "And of course, of course, it wasn't true."

His look now wassail keenness and closeness.

"What have I been thinking," he said, "that wasn't true?"

"Did you think I had a sugar-daddy, Peter? Did somebody tell you that I had? It's quite a ridiculous story that's going round the firm, and I've only just heard it. Of course, it's the most utter nonsense."

"It isn't true?" he asked her slowly.

She seemed almost to be swaying in front of him, as if she needed support. He put his hands on her shoulders.

"Of course it isn't true," she said, her eyes on his. Clear, direct grey eyes, but filled now with all sorts of desires.

"And never was true?"

"Never, never, never," she said, her eyes pleading with him to take her into his arms.

"Fiona, you said yourself it was true," he said putting off the moment.

"A misunderstanding," she cried. "How could I think you would think such a thing about me? I was talking of something else -Oh, Peter."

"And this man who you have been dating—a tall, dark and handsome fellow with a devilish-looking car, I'll bet?"

"Nothing, nothing," she said. "He doesn't count."

Poor, poor Guy, where are all your dreams of affluence?

"Fiona," he began, but she had waited long enough, too long. She put her arms about his neck-and leaned against him, and he had gathered her up into a close, close embrace, into timeless bliss, into that feeling of perfect oneness that washed all the frustration out of her, left her deeply content, utterly happy.

She looked up at his face after a while. She was almost surprised to find she was in the office, so completely had she forgotten her surroundings. His eyes came down to meet hers, dark eyes into which she felt she could go on looking for ever. His lips came down slowly to meet hers, and Fiona wondered how much happiness a person could bear.

After a long time, Peter released her a little.

"Darling," said Fiona, smiling dreamily at him.

"Wake up," he said gently. "We can't stay here all night."

She sighed and roused herself.

"But don't let me go," she said. "Not yet."

He let her go, smiling down gently at her.

"I'll take you out and give you some dinner," he said.

"What about the report?" she asked.

"Damn the report!"

"Oh, Peter, I'm coming between you and your work!"

"It's time all good secretaries had gone home. The report can wait until tomorrow. Get your coat on."

"In a minute, darling." She took his face between her hands, looking at him for a moment; then she reached up and kissed his mouth. Then kissed him again. "I could stay here all night," she said.

"Well, it wouldn't be very comfortable," said Peter. "I can think of better places than this. Get ready and we'll go out to dinner."

So they went out to dinner. In the car, Fiona sat close to him. In the restaurant, the high-backed seats made little alcoves, each one softly lighted, each one occupied by what seemed to the infatuated Fiona a pair of lovers.

Peter ordered a meal for them, and although Fiona said she was not hungry and did not want to eat, she found, when the food arrived, that love had not taken her appetite away after all. She lifted her wine glass to Peter.

"What shall we drink to, Peter? To us?"

"To us," he said, touching her glass lightly with his own.

"Now," he said, "tell me what made you discover so suddenly what I've been thinking about you? Why, between my going out of the office and coming back into it, did the light break over you?"

"Kathy, Kathy Heeley told me," she said. "She apparently stumbled on a conversation about me in the cloakroom, and being loyal as she is, she challenged them to repeat what they'd been saying about me, and flew to me to tell me."

"Wasn't that rather trouble-making?"

"Oh, no. Because she knew it wasn't true, and she wanted my permission to tell them the truth."

"How did she know it wasn't true? When I didn't? Was hers a greater loyalty? Or perspicacity?"

"Oh, no, Peter." Fiona put out her hand to him and he took it warmly in both of his own, caressing it gently. "I can see that I really misled you. But you see, Kathy knew the real truth."

"And what is that?" he asked her, his eyes on hers all the time. She looked back at him, and suddenly she realised that Peter did not know, after all, who she was. When she thought he had discovered her identity, she had been wrong—it had been this other ridiculous gossip that had come between them. And Fiona knew with certainty that Peter was not going to like hearing this new thing about her.

"Not tonight," she said. "Some other time. It's not important. Let tonight be quite uncomplicated—let's leave realities behind us tonight."

"But it has nothing to do with lovers—young or old?" asked Peter.

"Nothing," she assured' him. He lifted the hand he had been caressing so gently to his lips and kissed it. They looked at each other, with quiet delight, for a long moment.

"You're so handsome," said Fiona at last. "It's a pleasure just to sit and look at you."

"Pshaw," said Peter, or some protesting sound very like it. Fiona laughed.

"Tell me all about you," she said. "I don't really know a thing about you; except for meeting your nice family once. Did you always live in that same house? What were you like as a little boy? A very pretty one, I'm sure."

"A very scruffy one, I'm sure," said Peter. "We didn't always live there. We lived in the country, in a cottage miles from anywhere, and my father went into his office job every day. We all preferred living in the country. We had a stream at the bottom of the garden, big enough for all sorts of damming operations and sluice gates and waterwheels and so on; vast woods almost to the back door, in which my brother and I and our friends roamed unmolested—in fact, I thought for many years they belonged to us—we built tree houses up there and camped out, and helped the woodman with his work; and in general had the kind of boyhood every boy ought to have. Well, is that enough about me?"

"Oh, no," she said. "So eventually you started work, and you've been going slowly up and up ever since?"

"I suppose so," he said. "It's an agreeable feeling, Fiona, to know that you've earned everything you've got. Geoffrey, my brother, feels the same. We had nothing to start with, except a pretty good foundation from our parents and plenty of determination. Neither of us has ever wanted things handed to us on a plate."

"In fact, you've got a good deal of pride," she said slowly, rather wishing that he had less for her own convenience, but glad of it otherwise.

"I like to think it's proper pride," he said.

"And girls?" she asked him suddenly, raising her brows at him. "What about girls? Have there been lots in your life?"

"Lots," he told her.

"Oh, Peter, no."

"Fiona, yes. Why not? I'm thirty-two."

"Were they all—just transistory?" she asked him.

"Well, I'm still unattached," he pointed out. "And you should never delve into people's pasts. The past is dead, done with—it's the future that matters."

"And the present," said Fiona. "The now."

"And now," he said, "I want to kiss you. Can we get out of here?. Have you finished?"

"Yes," she said. "Let's go."

They went out to the car. Fiona pointed out that she had to pick up her own car, and Peter drove slowly in the direction of the works, into the darkest corner of the deserted yard and switched off his lights. Then they were in each other's arms, and time and the everyday world did not exist for them.

Long afterwards, Peter helped her into her own car and stood at the open door of it looking down at her.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asked her.

"Yes, of course."

"I don't like to let you go alone. You won't go driving into any ditches or off any bridges?"

"I know I'm quite besotted," said Fiona, "but I'll do my best to get home in one piece. Good night, darling Peter."

Peter leaned down and kissed her again, a long passionate kiss. Fiona was shaking when he let her go.

"You'd better go now," said Peter, "or I won't let you go at all."

So Fiona drove home, her head in the stars, and stars in her eyes, bemused, bewitched, so much in love that the whole prosaic world seemed to be changed, seemed to be touched with magic; and arrived at Ingleden House to find the family distraught with anxiety.

"Fiona, where have you been?" demanded her mother. "We were desperate with anxiety about you."

"But why?" she asked in surprise. "I only went out to dinner."

"But why didn't you ring us up and tell us? You said you would be home to dinner. We telephoned your office and got no reply. We couldn't think where you were."

"I forgot to phone," said Fiona. 'I'm so sorry."

"You just forgot?" exclaimed her mother.

Her father was observing her closely. He saw that she was still bewitched, still inhabiting a far-off world of her own.

"Who took you to dinner?" he asked her directly.

"Peter Webber," she said, and her father, who had been thinking for a long time that he would be interested to meet this young man, decided that now was the time to do something definite about it. So that next morning, Peter said to Fiona, with a slightly twisted smile:

"I'm invited to dinner with K.J. again next Saturday."

"To meet the chairman again?"

"Not this time. To meet one or two of the influential people in the steel business."

"K.J. seems to have taken you under his wing, Peter."

"I suspect him of some ulterior motive. It can't just be for love of my dark eyes."

"I'm sure it could be," she said. "What better reason? It would do for me."

"You, dear Fiona, are in no state to make judgements."

"No, that's true. Tm under a fatal spell."

"Will you have dinner with me again tonight?"

"Of course I will, but this time I must phone my family —they worried about me yesterday."

They went again to the restaurant with the tables set into alcoves by the high-backed seats, and sat in the soft glow of the shaded lights having their meal.

"Now tonight," said Peter softly, "you're going to do the talking. You're going to tell me what this real truth is that Kathy knew about you, but nobody else."

Fiona looked at him very seriously.

"Yes," she said, "I must." But she did not begin. She sat watching the wine in her glass as her fingers twisted the stem round and round.

"Is it something so difficult?" asked Peter curiously.

"No, not really. No, of course not."

"Well?" he asked, encouragingly.

"Peter, I suppose Sheila told you "about seeing me in London?"

"Yes, she did. That was true, was it?"

"Yes, but her construction was all wrong, Peter, I was shopping with my father that day."

"Your father?"

"Yes, my father. I don't know why that didn't occur to Sheila."

"I know very well,"' said Peter drily. "She never imagined that your father would look like a film magnate or a business tycoon. She never imagined that your father would own a very expensive car and employ a chauffeur: or that you would be in a position to shop in one of London's most expensive stores."

Fiona looked at him pleadingly.

"Who is your father, Fiona?" he asked.

"John Chard, of the steel firm."

Peter was silent, tracing the pattern of the damask tablecloth with a fork; and it was a very pregnant silence, fraught with so many unsaid things that Fiona grew more and more nervous, and very much alarmed. At last, when she could bear it no longer, she ventured:

"Peter?"

Peter looked up at her, and his face was carefully expressionless. Fiona put a hand on his, but he took no notice of the movement. He waited for what she would say.

"Peter, don't let this make any difference to us. Don't let it spoil things." She was beautiful in her pleading, but now he was suddenly and strangely immune.

"You've lied to me, Fiona, fairly consistently."

"Oh, Peter, I haven't lied!"

"You said you needed a job."

"I did need one, Peter; not financially, but in other ways."

"You knew that I meant financially; you know that people always mean it that way. You knew you were giving me' a wrong impression, and that is to lie." He paused, then went on. "The other woman, the one I'd chosen, did need a job. I wouldn't have given it to you it I'd known, in spite of the managing director."

"Peter," she pleaded, "don't be hard. Please try to understand. Things could so easily go wrong between us now."

"Things have gone wrong between us, Fiona. They seem to have turned sour. You told me there was no relationship between you and the wealthy Chards."

"I did not, I said there was a relationship -"

He thought back to their interview.

"Yes, so you did," he admitted. "But once more, in a way that would give me the wrong impression. Just as you did about the car belonging to you. Just as you did when you implied your father

could struggle along in tubes and trains to his office; just as you did when you said your father had had some bad times in the past. All along, you have acted a lie. The letter may have been the truth but the spirit was a lie."

"Is that how it seems to you?" she asked in a distressed whisper.

"I don't know what sort of whim sent you into this job," he said, "but I suppose you have always got what you want. The managing director speaks, and a woman who needs a job doesn't get one, so that you can step into it. .." He went on speaking, hard words that plunged Fiona into misery; and she had not the experience to see that they were forced out of him by his own hurt pride. And when he finished speaking, they sat there in estranged dejection, as surely separated by this new truth as they had been by the previous untruth.

"Peter," she said at last, "are the material things of this world so very important? "

"Yes," he replied, "they are. Not, perhaps, to the people who have always had them, but to the people who have not had them or who have had to fight for them."

"But not," she protested softly, "more important than the spiritual things."

"No," he agreed. "But so often they affect the spiritual things."

"Peter, I am the same person, the same I, whether I'm the daughter of John Chard, or a hard-working secretary without advantages."

"You may think so," said Peter, "but it isn't so."

She had come up against that blank wall once more. There seemed to be nothing more that she could say—at least while Peter persisted in this mood.

"You'd better take me back for my car," she said, and, in a very different mood from the night before, he drove her back to the deserted yard, and saw her to her car. She stood beside it before getting in, facing him, saying in final pleading: "Peter," wanting him to kiss her, feeling that if he but touched her, the old magic must work. But he did not touch her. There was no long, passionate kiss for her tonight. She got in and started the engine and drove away from him, the headlights giving her a last glimpse of him, stern and implacable, as he stood and watched her go.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AT Ingleden House, Elspeth's approaching wedding continued to create a whirling confusion of comings and goings, orderings and fittings, alterations and misunderstandings. Mrs. Chard and Elspeth lived among cardboard boxes, arriving presents, caterers' men, telephone calls and florists. The village church was to be profusely decorated with chrysanthemums which could afterwards be sent to the hospital. The hall, drawing-room and dining-room would accommodate the guests, and the morning-room the presents. Already it was almost impossible to squeeze into the morning room for the boxes and crates, and still presents arrived. The wedding dress also arrived, and then the wedding cake.

"It's a wonder the house doesn't burst at the seams," commented Elspeth, who wandered through all this confusion with shining eyes, leaving the agitation to her mother.

The Saturday before the wedding was the day on which Peter was to dine with Mr. Jackson in London. The Chard family were to dine with George's family, and see the redecorating that had made the east wing a suitable and separate residence for George and Elspeth, but on the evening before, Mr. Chard, who had had quite enough already of all these wedding arrangements, said that he would be unable to go as he had an important business dinner in London.

"On a Saturday?" queried his wife, unbelievingly.

"On a Saturday," he confirmed.

"Who is it you're dining with? Who will give up his weekend to stuffy business dinners ? "

"It's Jackson, my dear; and I very much want to be there."

Fiona looked at him in surprise, and afterwards sought him out in the privacy of his study, where he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar.

"So you're going to dine with Mr. Jackson on Saturday?" she queried.

"Yes, my dear."

"No doubt you will get a report on my behaviour."

"I very much doubt if you will be mentioned at all," he said.

"Did you happen to know that Peter Webber is dining with Mr. Jackson tomorrow?"

"Peter Webber? What, your man? "

"Don't look so guileless, Father. You know perfectly well that Peter is going to be there. And he's not my man. I only wish he were."

Her father looked at her closely.

"Ah," he said. "I thought so."

"You probably thought all wrong. He has no use for me."

"What! I can hardly believe that. He isn't married or engaged to be, is he? Then what's the stumbling block?"

"You are, dear parent."

"I? I should hardly have seen myself in that light, especially to a young man in his particular line of business. In what way, Fiona, am I a stumbling block? "

"Because of his stiff-necked pride," she said. "He doesn't like rich girls. He doesn't like people born with silver spoons— or golden ones—in their mouths. Not girls anyway."

"He interests me more and more," said Mr. Chard. "And what do you intend to do about it, Fiona?"

"What can I do? Short of hanging about his neck and telling him that I love him -" She broke off. "Oh, it's all very well trying to sound so hard-boiled," she said, "but I'm as miserable as I've ever been in my life. These last days in the office have been almost more than I can bear," She had been prowling around the room restlessly, but now she paused by the door, and her father saw tears shining in her eyes. "I've got a good weep coming on," she said, trying to smile at him. "I'll go upstairs. If Mother or Elspeth want me, tell them I'm headachy and want to be left alone." And, before he could detain her, she had disappeared, closing the door softly behind her. Her father sat lost in thought for a long time.

Early next evening, Matthey brought the big car round to drive Mr. Chard to London, and they drove away from a house that was noisier and more confused than ever, with bridesmaids trying on their dresses, and the young men telling each other what their duties were as ushers in the church. He was glad to reach the comparative sanity of a private room of a big restaurant, and an all-male dinner party.

Peter Webber was introduced to him, and they exchanged a few polite sentences. At dinner they sat nearly opposite one another, and the older man took every opportunity of studying the younger. Extremely handsome, that was the first thing that struck one about him, a thing that might occasion a slight prejudice in as mature a man as Mr. Chard, but for the fact that Peter seemed to carry his good looks as a natural possession, completely unconsciously. No

vanity about him: pride, perhaps but no vanity. And he talked good sense. Slowly, Mr. Chard felt his heart warm towards him.

After dinner, when the casual stage of coffee and cigars was reached, Mr. Chard carried his cup to where Peter was sitting, and Peter rose courteously to greet him.

"Sit down, sit down," said Mr. Chard; and, when they were seated: "I've heard quite a bit about you lately, Mr. Webber, in connection with that change-over of machinery in your works. Jackson thought it was carried through with considerable aplomb. I watched it with interest. I think you were lucky, mind you, to carry it off without trouble."

"It was touch and go, once or twice," returned Peter.

"I think the union watched it pretty closely, too. I suppose it's too early to evaluate the usefulness of the change-over yet?"

They were embarked on a conversation that went on and on, becoming of increased interest to them both all the time. Peter forgot that he had other interests in this man, and warmed to him too. When the dinner party showed signs of breaking up, Mr. Chard said:

"Can I drop you anywhere?"

"I have my car here, thank you, sir."

"Ah. Well, I should like us to meet again. You might be interested in looking over my own concern one day ? "

"I should be very interested."

"Then we'll fix something up. One day next week?"

"That's a little difficult, sir. The week after would be fine, because I start my holiday and am spending the first week round and about before going to Spain. I should have gone weeks ago, but the change-over delayed it."

"The week after next, then. I'll get my secretary to phone about a date. I suppose it would suit me better, too. My daughter is getting married next week, and I shall be at my wife's beck and call, I expect."

Peter was so startled that, for a moment, he could not conceal it; but very quickly he recovered himself.

"I hope it all goes off very well," he said politely.

"It should," chuckled Mr. Chard, "after all the preparations. My wife and Elspeth have lived and dreamed nothing else for weeks. My elder daughter, you know. You aren't going to lose your secretary yet."

That was the first mention of Fiona between them, and it barely caused a ripple, so well prepared were they both. Peter felt convinced that Mr. Chard knew nothing of the perpetually changing relations between Fiona and himself; the up and down, alternately bitter and sweet relations that had made this summer so frustrating.

Fiona had found time, in the business of the preparations, and in the desolation of her own worries, to make arrangements for Kathy and Mrs. Heeley. She would drive them both to Mrs. Brookes' cottage the evening before, and, on the way to the church, she would get the bridesmaids' car, and that of the bride, to stop, at the cottage for a few minutes, so that Mrs. Heeley, who was not coming to the Church, could see the dresses. Kathy was to be resplendent in a grey suit from Paris that Elspeth had given her, complete with all its accessories. "It's a sort of little thanksgiving present," said Elspeth

when she sent the gift, "because I'm so happy." It had been very little worn and Kathy fell in love with it.

Everything went off like well-regulated clockwork. The church looked very beautiful, lit by a golden September sun only just breaking through the morning mist, and lavishly decorated with yellow, golden and tawny chrysanthemums. The ushers were very immaculate in their morning dress, guiding the guests into their pews. Guy was among them, his fair hair shining in the mellowing sun. George waited, not at all nervous, very confident, for his bride, who came up the aisle on her father's arm, quite radiant. Just as a bride should look, thought Fiona, envying her deeply.

She stood behind her, holding Elspeth's flowers as well as her own, and listening to the words of the service. If it had been herself and Peter! They could have gone away together to be together for always. To be loved by Peter—she shivered involuntarily. To lie in Peter's arms all night—bliss, bliss! She pulled her wandering thoughts back again to the service.

Afterwards, at the house, there were speeches and toasts and a confusion of guests. People wandered into the morning room to see the presents, now methodically arranged there with a man engaged to keep an eye on them; others wandered to the buffet to help themselves, although waiters were hurrying everywhere. And a rather plain girl, a little plump, who was most beautifully dressed, and had been a great friend of Elspeth's at school, came to Fiona, imploring her to introduce her to Guy.

"Who is he?" she asked. "I've never met him here before, have I, but he's devastatingly handsome."

"He's Guy Pendleton," said Fiona.

"And most devoted to Fiona," added the man Fiona was talking to, wickedly.

"Guy!" called Fiona, but Guy did not hear her with all the noise around him, so she said:

"I'll bring him over, Sally," and went to get him.

"Guy," she said, touching him on the elbow, "somebody wants to meet you. I believe you've made a conquest."

"Darling," he said, "there's only one conquest I want to make. I don't want to meet anybody else."

"You must be polite."

"Who is it, then?"

"Over there, by the long window, talking to Bernard. She's Sally Felstead, an old school friend of Elspeth's."

Guy looked at Sally and tinned back to Fiona.

"How could you, Fiona! Let's skip it. Come with me and get some more champagne."

"No, I told her I'd bring you over. You only have to be polite for a minute or two. She's the daughter of William Felstead, you know, the millionaire: he's in plastics of some kind. And Sally's very sweet, really."

Fiona privately thought Sally was rather a bore, but she successfully disguised the fact as she introduced her to Guy and then left them to their conversation. She did notice, however, that for a man who had to be persuaded to be polite for a minute or two, Guy was managing to sustain quite a long conversation.

"I hear," Sally was saying, "that you're devoted to Fiona."

"Who isn't?" said Guy gallantly. "I'm devoted to the whole family, and a great-friend of George. I spend a lot of my time here with them."

Having thus established himself in this circle, he set out to charm her, and Guy, intending to charm, could be very charming. Fiona watched with rising cynicism. She was not surprised when, later, Guy saw Sally to her car; nor surprised that they stood talking for some time before the car swept away down the drive. She had an idea that Guy would find Sally's acquaintance well worth cultivating.

On Monday, Fiona went to the cottage expecting to drive Mrs. Heeley and Kathy back home, but Mrs. Brookes had invited them to stay for a few days, so Fiona and Kathy drove straight to the office.

"And we'll come back together this evening," said Fiona.

"Well, I'm supposed to be going to the cinema with Derek this evening. There's an Italian film he wants to see."

"How will you get back, then ? "

"He's bought a car," said Kathy, rather proudly. "Only a second-hand one, of course, but very nice. Perhaps he'll bring me back—I know it's an awfully long way."

"He may be glad of that," said Fiona. "He—didn't want to back out, Kathy, in spite of the opportunities you gave him."

"No. It's a wonderful piece of luck for me. He's a wonderful person." Kathy said no more, and Fiona had the impression that she was afraid to look too closely on the face of happiness.

Her own affairs were in a dismal plight. Peter was resolutely impersonal, his pride up in arms. Fiona felt a sense of guilt to be working for him at all, since he had said he would not have chosen her had he known she did not need a job. He was courteous, as always. He talked quite openly still of office affairs, and their mutual office problems. And he did not seem to suffer at all from their daily contact as Fiona suffered.

That day, he was busy tidying up loose ends before his holiday, and giving her multitudinous instructions. He had enquired politely if the wedding had gone off well, and had added, a little sardonically, that no doubt one would be able to see the pictures of it in The Tatler. He would be away for three weeks, and already those three weeks stretched endlessly before Fiona, a time to be endured, to be wished into the past…

When it was time to go home, and Fiona had put on her coat, he said:

"Well, I hope everything goes off without mishap, while I'm away. The office manager will be glad to help you if you come up against anything sticky."

"I shall manage," said Fiona. "And you'll probably come back to a vast accumulation of problems."

"Well, don't worry about anything."

"How can I help worrying about things?' she asked, and they both knew that now she was not referring to office worries. She saw the guarded expression that came into his face. "Oh, Peter," she cried impatiently, "how can you be so foolish as to pass over something really important for the sake of your pride?"

"What am I passing over that's so important?" he asked, and waited for her answer; but she found difficulty in giving him an answer.

Could she say: "You're passing over your chance of happiness?" or tell him that he was passing over love? Perhaps Peter's happiness did not lie with her; and he had never said or shown that he loved her. He was attracted to her, yes; and desired her. But he; had never said he loved her. If he did, perhaps his pride would not stand in the way. She said, pleadingly:

"Peter." And the single word asked for his understanding. He hesitated for several seconds. Then he said, deliberately refusing her:

"Well, anyway, don't worry about the office problems."

She stiffened. Her own pride reared itself to answer his. She turned to her desk to pick up her bag.

"I hope you'll enjoy Spain," she said, "and have good weather there. Good-bye"

Fiona drove slowly home, at last determined on a course of action. She would leave this job and find another one. Daily contact was no solution—he had to see her and work with her whether he wanted to or not: she had to endure unsatisfied longings made infinitely deeper by his proximity. Sooner or later, those longings would be too much for her. She would either plead with him and grovel before him; or she would become taciturn and tortured and altogether a menace; both pictures too horrible to contemplate. Perhaps, if she left the job, it would be possible to resume contact in some other, more satisfactory way. Perhaps (hopefully), if she left, her absence would wake Peter up to his need of her, always presuming that he had any need of her.

So on the morning that Peter began his holiday Fiona sent her notice in to the firm that she would leave on the last day of Peter's holiday. And she would leave everything in apple-pie order for him, and he

could have a typist from the pool until he could get in touch with that other girl who had needed a job. If all that he had said to her was true, he should come back to find her gone, with a great sense of relief. It was almost a relief to herself to have decided upon a clear course of action.

One day in the following week, Peter spent the greater part of it in the company on Fiona's father. The morning tour of the works, which was all that had been arranged, ended in the two men lunching together—a lunch that extended well into the afternoon, and did a good deal more towards forging the link that was already binding them together. Then, to settle a point under discussion, Mr. Chard took Peter back into his private office, where their talk went on until most of the office staff had gone home.

"Well, I mustn't keep you longer," he said then. "You're supposed to be on holiday, I believe."

"It's all been most interesting, sir. You've given up a lot of time, and I appreciate it."

"Not entirely for your sake, Webber. I suppose you have some plan for this evening?"

"No, actually I haven't. I intended to go to a theatre, but didn't do anything about booking the seat."

"Then come and dine. A bit early yet, but you'd like a drink."

This surprised Peter, but he accepted. The admiration he had at first felt was turning into warm liking. There was nothing at all patronising in Mr. Chard's manner either. Peter suspected that he might be a bit of an autocrat; that he would be impatient of inefficiency or idleness in others; but certainly, towards himself, the old man was genuinely friendly and spoke almost as to an equal. And he did not speak of Fiona, or of any private matters. The

suspicion crossed Peter's mind that Fiona might have appointed her father an envoy on her own missions, but this he quickly dismissed. From what he knew of both of them, this would appear to be quite unjustified.

"When do you go to Spain?" asked Mr. Chard as they stood in the street outside Mr. Chard's club, before going their separate ways.

"On Friday, sir."

"Then come and see me when you return. I may have a proposition to put to you."

"I'll be pleased to call and see you."

"And enjoy your holiday. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir." Peter shook hands and smiled.

As Mr. Chard got into his car, and Matthey took the wheel and began the drive out of London, Fiona's father thought he could see why Fiona had fallen in love. "He's a good-looking chap," he thought, "and strong with it, too. That smile, combined with those shoulders, would be bound to charm the women. And he's got the intelligence that Fiona would like, and the will-power that won't let him submit to anything or anybody." Yet Fiona had said that Peter had no use for her. Her father thought carefully about that.

Fiona broke the news to Kathy that she would soon be leaving, preferring that Kathy should hear it from her own lips rather than through office channels. As she had expected, Kathy was very sorry and woebegone about it, and did not seem to have any real confidence in Fiona's assurances that they would see a great deal of each other in the future.

"Why should we?" she asked. "Whether you have another job or not, you'll be much too busy to bother about me. But I'm sorry; I'm just thinking selfishly about myself, and I ought to be jolly glad that you ever came here. You've made a tremendous difference to me. Yes, you have, ifs no good shaking your head at me, and trying to change the subject. I've got something to say and I want to say it. I'd got into a rut; a shocking rut, and I don't think I'd ever have got out of it by myself. You've given me a whole new viewpoint—and, of course, incidentally, you've given me this time with Derek. I'd never have come to the dances without your help and company, and he wouldn't have noticed me in years in the reception desk with my old clothes. And whether it ever comes to anything or not, it's the happiest time I ever had in my life."

"Well," smiled Fiona, "have you said your say?"

"Not half of what I'd like to say, but probably as much as you want to listen to. And now Derek wants me to go and spend a week-end at his home to meet his family."

"Good for you."

"But I believe I'm too scared to go.'

"Oh, what nonsense, Kathy. Of course you must go."

"I would if you would tell me everything I ought to take to wear and everything I ought to do, and give me lashings of advice. You see how much I need you. And it means arranging for Mother. I know she could go to Mrs. Brookes for the weekend, and I know you would be very kind and take her in your car when you go home on Friday -"

"Of course," said Fiona at once.

"And you see we wouldn't have known dear Mrs. Brookes but for you -Oh, bother you, Fiona, why did you have to be like all Peter's secretaries and fall in love with him?"

"What?" exclaimed Fiona, astounded.

"Well, you are, aren't you? It sticks out a mile."

"Oh, God, no!" protested Fiona, horrified.

"Only to me, I expect," said Kathy, trying, a little late in the day, to be reassuring. "I expect it's because I've got the same disease, I recognise the symptoms."

"Does everybody in this building see it sticking out a mile?" asked Fiona, suddenly seeing a picture of herself as a second poor, infatuated Miss Cray. "And does nobody see it where Peter is concerned?"

They'll think I'm running away, she thought. Or even that Sheila Pont's story about me was true after all. Or that Peter has got rid of me. Or that I was just a rich girl playing at being a secretary. And she did not care what anybody thought. If Peter had wanted her, she would have stayed, doing her job very well; but since Peter had only taken her because his hands had been forced, because he would prefer somebody else working with him, she was leaving.

"I'll leave a private letter for him with you," she said to Kathy, "to explain why I'm doing this; and you must give it to him the moment he arrives."

Kathy promised that she would.

CHAPTER TWELVE

PETER sat in Mr. Chard's office and waited for him to finish a long telephone conversation, and as he waited, he was considering very carefully what plans to make for his future. From the depths of his comfortable, brown leather armchair, he watched Mr. Chard at his desk, and the more he saw of him, the more he liked him. They had met two or three times since Peter's return from Spain, and Peter was here now to listen to a proposition the older man wanted to put to him.

At first, returning to his office from holiday, finding Fiona gone and her letter waiting for him, he had determined to have nothing more to do with the Chard family. Better to put it all behind him, and go on, if possible, as if this summer interlude had never been. If possible! He smiled a little ruefully to remember how impossible it had been. Soon after his return, Mr. Chard had telephoned him, and Peter did not see how he could refuse, without rudeness, to meet him; and after the first meeting, others seemed to follow naturally. There was strong possibility, thought Peter, that these meetings might have something to do with Fiona, and that he must find out before committing himself to anything for the future. For he did not doubt that Mr. Chard's proposition had to do with his future.

The older man replaced the receiver of the telephone and turned to Peter.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Now where were we?"

"You'd just explained to me the set-up of your staff here, sir."

"Ah, yes. And the opening that I've been trying to fill for a considerable time—I might say years. I had no intention of getting the wrong man, even a doubtful man, and was willing to wait indefinitely for the right one. As I told you, my key men here are all

no longer young. Most of them have been with me from the beginning, and we've worked pretty well together through the years." (Peter noted this as a strong point in favour of Mr. Chard, that his staff had stayed loyal so long, had been able to work with him all those years.) "But one has already retired, others are on the verge of it, or will be thinking of it in a year or so; and I want a younger man now, a man with experience in this particular business, to step in and take over a position of real responsibility. I want a man who will gradually take over more and more of the things I do myself—after all, I'm getting older at the same time as my staff: and although I have no intention of retiring, I should like to have a little more leisure as time goes on."

He went on to detail the kind of work this man would have to do, and ended by explaining that Peter seemed to him the right man for the job. He had not, he said, come to the decision lightly. He had given the matter a great deal of thought, even though he had felt drawn to Peter and had had a hunch that he had reached the end of his search. It seemed to Peter, as he listened, that the older man was looking for a prince to inherit his kingdom. It was a job in a thousand, a job that challenged him, that called to all the power latent in him, and he knew that he could not possibly refuse it. But one thing had to be cleared up first.

"It's a great honour, sir," he said, when Mr. Chard sat waiting for an answer. "A great compliment. And it's a job I should like to do, a job in a thousand. But may I ask you something before I say any more about it?"

"Ask all the questions you like."

"Does this handsome offer of yours have anything to do with your daughter?"

"My daughter?" Mr. Chard was obviously astonished; He had his mind full of his business, and daughters were worlds away from his thoughts. "Which one? Fiona?"

"Yes, Fiona."

"Why should Fiona have anything to do with it? Of course she hasn't. Do you imagine that in a matter of such importance as this I should pay any attention to my daughters? Though I suppose, in fairness, r should say -"

"Yes, sir?" asked Peter, watching him keenly.

"Well, I suppose my interest in you was first aroused by Fiona. You know" (confidentially) "she was in quite a flutter when she first took that job with you: afraid she wouldn't come up to scratch, afraid you might be a hard taskmaster and so on. So we discussed the work quite a bit. And I heard all about the works change-over from her, and I must admit I had an interest in you from the beginning."

"And that was really the extent of Fiona's influence?"

"That was the whole extent. You needn't worry, my boy, Fiona wouldn't be likely to ask me to make such a proposition, but if .she did, I shouldn't heed her. This offer is the outcome of a year or two of planning and thought."

"Then I have the greatest pleasure in accepting, sir; and I hope I shall justify your hopes, and not be a disappointment."

Mr. Chard thought Peter had the kind of independence that he himself had had when young. He did not want to climb with the help of a woman, but by his own power.

They discussed the matter far into the afternoon. Peter could not join the Chard concern until the new year, but whenever possible he

would spend time with Mr. Chard learning the ropes. At first, he could be a glorified private secretary, while he felt his way into the intricacies of the management. Later, he would join the board of directors. It would be necessary for him to move to London, and make his headquarters there.

Meanwhile, Fiona looked about her for another job. She no longer entertained the slightest idea of marrying Guy. Nor could she, after her months in industry, settle down at home, although her mother, missing Elspeth, would have liked her to. She must, if only to alleviate the misery that so often threatened to engulf her, find something to do. For unhappiness waited, like a flood, to sweep over her time after time. Not only was the year turning to grey as November approached, but her life seemed to have turned grey too. Happiness, colour, light, all seemed to have drained out of it; and she felt it would have been better to stay in Peter's office, working for him, however reluctant he had been to have her, rather than face the empty days without so much as a sight of him. Had she hoped that he would seek her out on his return from Spain? Or that her flight would provoke him into following her? She did not think so— she had only thought that she Could not stay where she was not wanted.

But she must have some news of him, must be able to speak- of him to somebody. So she went to see Kathy and Mrs. Heeley, and was warmed and delighted by their welcome. And one of the first things she noticed was the diamond ring on Kathy's finger.

"Kathy! You're engaged!"

"Yes." Kathy spun round and exhibited the ring with delight. "I was going to ring you up and tell you. It only happened last night."

"Derek, of course ? Oh, I am delighted for you!"

"I knew you would be. I went to meet his family that weekend. And it was grander than anything I was used to—nothing like your home, of course; and I did have terrible nerves about it. But apparently they all liked me, which was a great relief to me. And, with any luck, we're going to be married next summer."

When the two girls were out in the minute kitchen some time later, washing the supper dishes, Kathy continued her confidences in a lowered voice.

"Fiona, he's quite wonderful, my Derek. I can't get used to my marvellous luck. And he has everything worked out about Mother. He says we'll see later on if Mrs. Brookes will take her as a permanent boarder: after all, Mother loves the country and always wanted a country cottage. But if that doesn't work out, then we'll have her with us, and she shall have her own sitting-room, and so on. He's perfectly sweet about it, and very sensible; and honesty, I adore him so much that I feel there must be a snag somewhere. Maybe I'm dreaming, and will wake up soon."

"I'm so happy for you, Kathy."

"Well, of course, I always think I owe it all to you, but I know you don't like my saying so. It's awfully dull at the office nowadays without you, Fiona."

"What about the new girl in my place ?"

"She's hardly a girl—she must be forty. Peter had intended to have her before, I believe. She had got a job, but she preferred this one, so she came to Peter; but she doesn't interest me. She's very nice, of course, very businesslike, and they get through a terrific amount of work in that office. But she hasn't caused any stir among the other girls, as you did."

"And Peter?"

"Oh, very stern and aloof these days. Seems to be working at pressure. He certainly gives nothing away—even when I gave him your letter, there wasn't a flicker of expression. I like to think he's hiding a broken heart."

"If he were,' said Fiona, "I think he would do something about it."

After all, she thought as she drove homeward again, I never had reason to suppose he was in love with me. He was attracted, yes; but perhaps in his life he has been attracted to many women. He couldn't be in love with them all.

So, a few days later, when the family was gathered round the fire, discussing whether to watch television or not, Fiona flung her bombshell. Elspeth and George had been dining at Ingleden House, and George was carrying the coffee cups round as Mrs. Chard filled them.

"Before you switch on," Fiona said, "I have something to tell you."

Elspeth looked up quickly at the tone of her voice.

"Something momentous," she said at once.

"Well, yes, it is rather. I've got myself a new job."

They all looked at her then, giving her all their attention.

"What is it, Fiona?" asked her father, watching her steadily.

She took a deep breath.

"I'm not sure if you'll approve," she said, "but I'm going out to Hong Kong. I've got a secretarial job in an electronics factory there."

"No!" said her mother at once, protesting.•

"That's a very long way off," said her father.

"I know. It gave me a shock too, at first. You see, I don't want to hang about doing nothing, and I also wanted a complete change."

There were varied reactions to this piece of news, but none of them very favourable, since nobody there wanted to be without Fiona for long; and Elspeth, after a while when they had all exhausted their protests, said:

"And what does Guy think of all this?"

"Guy?" asked Fiona, for she had so completely ceased to think of him in connection with herself that the question surprised her.

"Yes. I thought that when you left your job, you were considering marrying him. Wasn't that the idea?"

"Oh, my goodness, I changed my mind about Guy long ago. And he knows it. If I'm not very much mistaken, he'll soon be engaged to Sally Felstead." Fiona looked across the semicircle round the fire towards her father, "How clever you were after all, Father."

"I wonder," he said thoughtfully. For he had tried to save her unhappiness, but in being the unconscious means of throwing her into Peter's company, he seemed to have done precisely the opposite. She might disguise her feelings well enough to deceive her mother and sister, for neither of them could be accused of heightened perception; but she did not deceive him.

He had decided that he would tell his family this evening of his arrangement with Peter. He had not wished to do so until the matter was completely settled. But now, following on Fiona's news, he remained silent, until he had decided what to do next. They would know about Peter soon enough. The important person, at the moment, was Fiona: Fiona, who was caught fast in a love that gave

her no peace. It was no longer an age in which girls pined away for love—they got themselves jobs on the other side of the world, instead, driving out the demons of unrest and desire with hard work in new surroundings. But the demons were there, and just now very active.

The end of November would bring his wife's birthday, and he knew that Fiona and Elspeth were planning a dinner party for it ("Twelve for dinner and friends in afterwards for coffee," said Elspeth, "and maybe a film show too.") The films were of their own taking, and were chiefly of the girls growing up, and of their many holidays abroad; so that they were particularly liked as a birthday celebration by Mrs. Chard. Mr. Chard told Elspeth that he would like to bring a guest himself, but that it was to be a secret from her mother and sister.

"Secret?" asked Elspeth. "Nice one?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

Her father laughed and would not answer, or, he said, it would not be a secret much longer.

When next he saw Peter, he mentioned his family. Already a strong mutual affection was binding them together, and their many common interests added to it. Both were looking forward to working together.

"I should like you," Mr. Chard said to Peter, "to meet my family. We have a little celebration next week, and I would be; happy if you would have dinner with us at my house in the country."

"I'm sure you'll excuse me if I don't come," said Peter. "I feel I would be an intruder at celebrations on so short acquaintance."

"Not at all, my boy, not at all. If we're going to work in close harmony, you'll be meeting them sooner or later, and I assure you you wouldn't be an intruder. In any case, you know Fiona quite well already. And, incidentally, it may be your last chance to see Fiona—for a long time, anyway."

"Oh?" queried Peter, and wanted to ask a good deal more, and could not find the right words to justify curiosity. Mr, Chard, however, was more than willing to satisfy it on the strength of that one word.

"Yes. She's going off to Hong Kong next month." There was a sudden concentrated quietness about Peter. Mr. Chard realised that he had pounced upon this piece of news with all his attention. Peter said: "Why Hong Kong?"

"Well, you know," said Mr. Chard, expansive, conversational, apparently quite unaware of any tension, "there was always something a little different about Fiona. She was never satisfied with the humdrum in the way that Elspeth is, for instance. She's quite an intelligent girl—but perhaps you found that out for yourself—and she'll do a good job there." He paused, and then went on: "Her mother doesn't approve of course; but I feel she needs something of this sort just now. She's unsettled, unhappy; I don't know why she should be, what's wrong with her; but apparently she thinks it's something that hard work will cure."

He began to light a cigar, taking his time over it, letting his words sink in. Then, the cigar well alight, he asked:

"Now, about the dinner party, Peter. Shall I tell them I'll be bringing a guest?"

"If you're quite sure it won't be an intrusion, sir."

"I'm quite sure about that," replied the deus ex machina.

So Peter went prepared, but Fiona was entirely unprepared. She and Elspeth had planned a delectable menu with Cook in the kitchen, and Fiona had ordered and arranged the flowers. The Hepplewhite dining table was out to its longest length, and the two girls made it look festive with the best china and glass and silver, and the tall candles ready to light. Fiona wore her beautiful dress of delicate pink, her diamond necklace, and this time added a new diamond bracelet, which her father had bought her because she had refused to take the holiday he had offered her when she left her job.

"I do hope Father won't be late," said Elspeth, admiring the finished table. "He's been spending such an awful lot of time in his office lately, Mother's been quite worried about it. And I do wonder who he's bringing with him—he was so hush-hush when I asked him."

"Perhaps he's confronting Mother with an old flame," laughed Fiona."

Her father, however, arrived alone and quite early.

"Where's the visitor?" demanded Elspeth. "If you dare to say at this late hour that he's not coming, and throw our numbers out -"

"He's coming," her father assured her, "but in his own car. He'll be on time, never fear."

He was on time, but several guests had arrived before him, and Fiona was talking to two of them when Peter came into the drawing-room. She had her back to the door, and she went on talking until her father's voice behind her said:

"Fiona, here's an old friend of yours."

Then she turned, and the shock was almost too much for her. Unexpected as the sight of Peter was, she was completely taken aback, quite unable to hide the jolt it had given her. The colour drained out of her face. For one dreadful moment she wondered if she would faint. Perhaps Peter also wondered, for he slipped a strong arm under hers, and after a moment she recovered herself and stepped aside.

"Peter," she whispered, "what are you doing here?"

"Your father asked me to come," he said, his eyes on hers.

"But how did -" She was interrupted, as a hand was laid on her arm, and a high-pitched voice said:

"Fiona darling, you look ravishing! Mummy wants to say hallo to you." And Fiona was whisked away from him to talk to other arriving guests.

At dinner, because Elspeth had had no idea who he was, he found himself at Mrs. Chard's left hand and next to a middle- aged woman who was charming enough, but totally inadequate to this time. His eyes sought Fiona-half-way down the opposite side of the table, and hers looked back, their clear grey clouded by many unanswered questions. They had difficulty in looking away again, in concentrating on what other people had to say to them.

After dinner, there was still no time for them to speak to each other. As soon as the men came into the drawing-room, Elspeth wanted

Fiona's help with the film projector and the films, and getting the screen exactly right. Peter came over to offer his help. His hand touched Fiona's, and she shivered.

"Now as soon as you've all got your coffee, I'll start," said Elspeth. "The first ones are of Portofino this year; but then we go back into the old days, so that Mother can see some of the past."

She switched off the lights. Save for the screen, the room was plunged into darkness; the streets and hills and coast of Portofino flashed in colour on to the screen, and Elspeth's voice gave a light running commentary. Peter idly wondered who this Guy was, who was so much in evidence; and he did not have long to remain in doubt. Elspeth's clear voice said: "Oh, now this is when we got home; there's Fiona and Guy— and there they are again -" and there followed innumerable pictures of Fiona and Guy on the pleasantest terms, one might say on familiar terms; and then Peter remembered thinking of this man spending week-aids with Fiona. Jealousy twisted inside him like an actual pain. He watched grimly as picture after picture of them appeared.

Then Elspeth put on some earlier pictures; short ones, and some of them too old to be in colour. And there was Fiona again, perhaps ten years old, with long pigtails; riding a pony, hugging a puppy, climbing trees with Elspeth. Then a slightly older Fiona, with her hair short and a most charming shy smile. And as these pictures shone out at him, all the jealousy' disappeared, and a flood of tenderness for her drenched him.

He was standing behind her chair. He leaned forward a little in the darkness, and put a hand on her shoulder. After a moment, Fiona rested her cheek upon his hand; then her own hand came up to close over his, and to pull it gently round to her mouth, and to hold it against her lips. He leaned lower, whispering in her ear:

"Can we get out of here?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "As soon as this film ends."

Perhaps it lasted ten minutes, but it seemed endless. When the light was switched on, Fiona said:

"I'll go and get the newest film, Elspeth. Peter, come and help me find it."

Elspeth opened her mouth to protest. The newest film was of her wedding and she did not want it shown now; but one meaning look from Fiona silenced her. She watched with interest as her sister went out of the room with Peter.

Outside the door, Fiona hesitated. Then:

"The morning-room," she said, and held out her hand to Peter, and led him across the hall into a comfortable, chintzy room in which a bright fire was blazing.

The moment he had shut the door, they were in each other's arms, clinging together desperately, kissing with a hunger that had grown in them too long.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," she said at last, weak in his arms.

Still he went on kissing her: her cheeks and hair, her eyes and forehead; and Fiona gave herself up to the sure, close strength of his arms.

At last, he relaxed his hold a little, and looked down into her eyes.

"Peter, what long, long weeks," she said.

"I know."

"Why didn't you come to find me?"

"Why did you leave me?"

"I told you in my letter. I wouldn't stay where you admitted you would prefer someone else."

"How do you think I felt to come back and find a letter waiting instead of you?"

"But you didn't want to find me."

"Yes, I did. Spain taught me that. I missed you, wanted to get back to you, couldn't enjoy Spain because you were not there with me; because you tormented me in the warm, dark nights, because I wanted to make everything right with you."

"It could have been right long before, but for your stiff- necked pride, Peter."

"I know, I know. It goes against, the grain to marry an heiress, but I suppose I shall have to do it."

"Darling, are you proposing to me?"

"Yes, Fiona. Marry me, darling, marry me, and stay with me for always. I love you desperately and want you desperately. Don't go careering off to Hong Kong and leave me alone."

She drew away still a little more.

"Now, how did you know about Hong Kong?" she asked.

"Your father told me. I don't think I would have come tonight but for that."

"What, still proud?"

"Fiona, don't you see, when I found that letter waiting, I couldn't help thinking that the little rich girl had got tired of her new game and just given it up. Especially as she couldn't get the man she wanted."

"Oh, conceit," she said softly.

"Didn't you want me?"

She looked into his dark, dark eyes.

"It was anguish," she said, "wanting you."

They were close in each other's arms again. For timeless ages, or a few minutes.

"Do we have to go back?" asked Peter then.

"No. It doesn't matter. Let's stay here."

"Over here, then. By the fire.' He led her across the room. "Come down, into my arms. That's right. Nice?"

"Bliss," she said. They were silent, and the firelight played over them. Then, at length:

"Peter!"

"Angel?"

"What is all this about my father? How did you get to know him?"

"What, hasn't he told yon anything about me?"

"No, nothing. How was it he brought you here tonight?"

"Fiona, after Christmas, I'm joining his firm."

Fiona sat bolt upright. Peter pulled her back into his arms, and held her firmly there.

"But I don't understand," she said. "Tell me all about it from the beginning."

So Peter told her the story, not without interruption, for Fiona stroked a wandering strand of his hair back into place, and her hand was caught and kissed; and she smoothed an eyebrow with her fingertip; and once she reached up and kissed him on the mouth when he was in the middle of a sentence. But at last the story was told.

"He always wanted a son," said Fiona, "to be with him in the business. And now he has one. I wonder if I ought to be more grateful to him, or he to me? But it doesn't matter, as long as we both have you."

"And you won't go off to Hong Kong after all?"

"How can I now? and she turned into his arms again.

"Perhaps we ought to go back?" he suggested again later.

"No," she said. "Nobody will miss us."

"Who was this fellow Guy?"

"A man I thought I wanted to marry."

"So. And quite recently, too."

"Not after I met you," she said. "After I met you, I knew I didn't want to marry him. Before then, I wasn't sure about love, about

being in love. I didn't think the calm fondness I had for Guy was enough, but I wasn't sure. I thought there ought to be something more, some heights to scale -"

"And are there?" he asked her.

"Oh, darling, yes. Lofty great heights, and awful deep depths of despair. The anguish and misery and desolation I had in these last weeks—over you. And now—an hour with you has wiped them all away. You won't disappear again tomorrow? You won't get a return of stiff-necked pride, or decide that you don't want a rich girl after all?"

"You only have a rich father," he told her. "When we're married, I support you. It won't run to diamonds, but you can do without diamonds. I know now you can't do without me; and heaven knows I can't do without you."

"So we really are together from now on?" '

"Really together."

"For always?"

"For always," he said.

She turned in the circle of his arms to meet his kiss, and once more the firelight played over them, in their deeply contented silence.