Текст книги "Britannia All at Sea"

Автор книги: Betty Neels

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CHAPTER FIVE

BRITANNIA DRESSED with great care, with a meticulous attention to detail which would have done credit to an aristocrat on the way to the guillotine, and if truth were told, in very much the same mood. Fate and the kind fairies hadn’t been so kind after all, or had they abandoned her because, with the professor in her hand, as it were, she had been too scrupulous?

She was ready far too soon and she went downstairs to sit with the Veskes, trying not to see Mevrouw Veske’s coy glances while her host explained about the return trip he had booked for herself and Joan.

‘Such a pity that you should have to return,’ she observed, remorselessly interrupting her husband, ‘but of course Joan will be with us again in a few weeks—perhaps you will be coming too, Britannia?’ She added guilelessly: ‘You also have friends here.’

Britannia gave her a limpid look. ‘Oh, yes, you’ve all been so super—but Joan’s only having a quiet wedding, no bridesmaids and only family and you, of course—besides, I’ve no more holidays due.’

Mevrouw Veske knitted a bit of complicated pattern with effortless ease. ‘You might like to come back on your own account, my dear.’

‘Oh, you mean work here?’ said Britannia, carefully misunderstanding. ‘Well, it might be fun, but there’s always the language difficulty, and…’ She paused thankfully as Berthe bounced in to say that the gentleman had arrived.

‘Then show him in,’ Mevrouw Veske begged her in her own language, and got up as she spoke to greet her visitor.

The professor was at his most charming and very elegant, his dark overcoat open to reveal a dinner jacket and shirt of pristine whiteness. Britannia, returning his cool greeting with one equally cool, thanked heaven that she had put on the pink dress; it was a little late in the day to capture his fancy—she seemed to have done that with nothing more glamorous than slacks and a sweater—but she felt well dressed and that made her feel confident. Ten minutes were spent in polite conversation before the professor got to his feet, murmuring that they had better make a start if they wanted their dinner, and Britannia went thankfully to fetch her coat. The professor helped her into it and just for a moment she wished that it had been mink or chinchilla instead of sensible tweed. Well, it wouldn’t have made much difference, anyway, she told herself sensibly. But it seemed that her companion wasn’t quite so unobservant as she had imagined. He shut the front door behind them, kissed her with quite surprising force and remarked: ‘Don’t complain—if you will dress up in that pink thing, you must expect the consequences. You’re beautiful, Britannia.’

It was a promising start to the evening; she got into the car determined to make the most of what she had. Surely Madeleine wouldn’t grudge her a few hours of happiness when she had a whole lifetime before her, for despite the professor’s protestations, Britannia thought the girl would somehow manage to marry him. She waited until he had got in beside her, then said: ‘Thank you,’ without either conceit or coyness.

‘And thank God you don’t simper,’ observed her companion.

‘And is that a compliment too?’ she wanted to know severely.

He was taking the road south towards Arnhem. ‘Ah, so my shortcomings are to be preached over, are they? My manners are at fault…’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she begged him in a motherly voice. ‘Your manners are very good indeed and you know that, and I’m not going to preach, truly I’m not.’

‘Good. We’re going to Scherpenzeel, just over twenty miles west of Arnhem. There’s a delightful inn there. We can turn off the motorway just outside Arnhem and go through Ede. I know it’s dark, but at least there are villages. Do you find the motorways rather bleak?’

‘Those I’ve been on, yes—I expect they vary.’

He said silkily: ‘Shall we discuss them in depth—so safe a conversation, don’t you agree?—or may we talk about ourselves?’

‘Well, I don’t much care to talk about roads,’ said Britannia reasonably. ‘But there’s nothing to say about us—we’ve said it all.’

‘You’re being a silly girl again. Why do you suppose I’ve brought you out this evening?’

She kept her voice very steady. ‘A sort of goodbye dinner, I thought.’

He gave a great laugh. ‘I shan’t say goodbye until the very last minute, Britannia, and that is still two days away. I shall spend the evening persuading you to marry me.’

The pink dress must be doing its work very well. She said in her calm way: ‘That will be a waste of time, and you know it.’

‘I shall have you in the end.’

She allowed a few seconds of delight at the prospect and then damped it down with common sense. ‘Perhaps we had better talk about roads,’ she observed primly.

They had swung off the motorway on to the road to Ede, running through wooded country. ‘We’ll do no such thing. Tell me about your family.’

She began a little reluctantly, but he put skilful questions from time to time, so that she told him a good deal more than she had intended, although she stopped herself just in time from telling him just where her home was. She tried in her turn to ask questions too, without any success at all; his bland replies told her nothing; he had a mother, she knew that, but other than that she knew nothing about him and it was obvious that he had no intention of telling her; he kept the conversation strictly about herself and her own family until they arrived at Scherpenzeel.

De Witte Holevoet was an attractive inn, quite small but already almost full of people dining. The professor whisked Britannia inside, waited while she disposed of her coat before being shown to their table and then sat back in his chair to look at her. ‘You’re getting admiring glances from all the men in the room,’ he assured her. ‘It must be that pink thing—irresistible, isn’t that the word?’

She answered him seriously, although her cheeks were as pink as her dress. ‘That’s what Mother always says.’

‘And that is why you packed a pink dress to come to Holland?’ His voice was bland, although she thought that he was amused.

She said defiantly: ‘Yes.’

He smiled at her with a charm to melt her bones. ‘I feel more hopeful. What would you like to drink?—we’ll order presently.’

And from then on he kept the conversation light and impersonal, and she, cautious at first, presently realised that he wasn’t going to talk about themselves at all—he had been joking about persuading her to marry him—she quenched quite unreasonable disappointment and followed his lead.

The meal was delicious; Britannia, who enjoyed her food, ate her way through lobster mousse, Poulet au Champagne and a lemon sorbet, helped along by a claret which even she, who knew very little about such things, realised was very fine. It was when they had finished their meal and she was pouring their coffee that she asked suddenly: ‘Have you a dog?’

‘Two—you didn’t see them at my home because they were in the kitchen having their meal. Why do you ask?’

She handed him his coffee. ‘Well, I just wanted to know something about you…’

‘You will have every opportunity of knowing everything about me when we are married.’ He was smiling at her and she didn’t suppose that he was serious.

‘What sort of dogs?’ she persisted; anxious to seem as lighthearted as he, she smiled back at him.

‘A Bouvier and a Corgi. They’re the best of friends.’ He added, still smiling: ‘My housekeeper has a cat, and the gardener’s children have rabbits and a tortoise.’

‘Where does the gardener live? I saw a dear little house up against the wall when I cycled there…’

He nodded. ‘That is his home. Marinus and Emmie—the housekeeper—and his wife, live in the house, so do a couple of maids. The laundrywoman lives in the other cottage.’

Her eyes were round. ‘The laundrywoman—that sounds quite feudal! She surely doesn’t do all the laundry for that great place.’

‘Lord, no—just the personal things. I don’t allow anyone else to iron my shirts.’

‘Why, you are feudal!’

His smile mocked her. ‘Disapproving? There are a great many things you don’t approve of, aren’t there, Britannia? But none of them matter, you know, and if you think about it, it’s fair enough—old Celine does my shirts, and when she’s ill, I look after her.’

She had to admit that that was true enough and he added in a wheedling tone: ‘I’m quite a nice chap, really.’

‘That isn’t what you said in London. You told me that you were rich and something of a hermit and you didn’t need to please anyone.’

‘Ah, I wanted you to know the worst first.’

She laughed at that, but he didn’t say any more, but began to tell her about the nearby castle of Scherpenzeel. ‘It’s owned by a family with the impressive name of van der Bosch-Royaards van Scherpenzeel, but no one lives there. It’s neo-Gothic and I think rather nice.’

‘Not as nice as your house. What is it called?’

‘Huize van Thien.’

She asked meekly: ‘May I know something about it?’

He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘The oldest part is thirteenth-century, the whole of the front was added in the eighteenth century. The round tower at the back is fifteenth-century, its rooms are furnished, but we only use the sitting room on the ground floor.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘You remind me of a schoolteacher examining her class! Myself, my mother when she is staying with me and my three sisters when they pay me a visit.’

‘Three sisters?’ repeated Britannia, much struck with this homely piece of information. ‘You’re the eldest, of course.’

‘Yes.’ He went on blandly, ‘I prefer the newest part of the house; they built roomily in the eighteenth century and their enormous windows let in the light. Tell me about your home, Britannia.’

She really had no choice after all her questions, and anyway, there would be thousands of small houses like her own home, there would be no fear of him discovering where it was. ‘It’s very small, a late Georgian cottage, built of stone with a slate roof. There’s quite a big garden, though, with some rather ramshackle outbuildings. There are woods all round us and it’s very peaceful, even in summer; the tourists don’t come near us, only if they lose their way, and the village is so small there isn’t even an hotel, just a pub.’

‘I like your English pubs,’ said the professor idly. ‘What’s this one called?’

‘The Happy Return.’ She hadn’t meant to tell him that, she would have to guard her tongue, though it was a common enough name, and besides, why was she worrying? Once she had gone, he wouldn’t come after her; he would see, as soon as they had parted, that the whole episode was just a pleasant little interlude. She had thought it so often that she almost believed it herself.

They lingered over their coffee and returned by a different road, across the Veluwe and a good deal further round, but as the professor pointed out, it was a charming route once they were through Barneveld, taking them through the National Park along a minor road which, he assured her, was quite delightful in daylight. So they didn’t arrive back at the Veskes’ villa until well after midnight, to find the house in darkness excepting for a welcoming light shining from the hall window. The professor got out and walked round the car to open her door. ‘You have a key?’

‘Yes.’ She gave it to him and as he put it in the lock, said: ‘Thank you for a lovely evening. I did enjoy it.’

He didn’t open the door. ‘We shall have many lovely evenings and enjoy them too, Britannia.’

She didn’t know how beautiful she looked under the dim light streaming from the hall. She stared up at him and said earnestly: ‘Please, Jake—I’m only a passing fancy.’

His face darkened. ‘So I’m to be preached at again, am I? I don’t know why I stand for it; how can you know what I want and what I think, and who are you to tell me what I must do and not do? I’ll tell you: you’re a sharp-tongued obstinate woman who thinks she knows best and spends her time poking her nose into my affairs so that I lose my temper.’

He opened the door and held it wide. ‘In with you.’ His voice was a muttered roar as she went past him and heard the door shut behind her. She had gone perhaps six paces when the door-knocker was thumped and she flew back to open the door before the whole house was roused.

‘Such a noise!’ she told him severely. ‘You’ll wake everyone, it’s long past…’

‘Not another word,’ he said softly. ‘I forgot something.’

He caught her close and kissed her slowly. Presently he loosened his hold a little. ‘Will you come out to dinner with me tomorrow, Britannia?’ And when she hesitated: ‘You go home the day after. I’ll behave exactly as I ought and we will say goodbye very correctly.’ His voice was gentle, but she had the strange idea that he was laughing too, although when she looked up into his face it was serious enough. She found it quite impossible to say no, and indeed, she had no wish to say it. She nodded her head without speaking and he kissed her again, this time very gently, and pushed her just as gently into the hall and shut the door. She heard the car slide away a few seconds later.

Mevrouw Veske received the news that Britannia was going out again with the professor with delighted satisfaction. She didn’t exactly say ‘I told you so,’ but Britannia could see her thinking it and the speculative look in her hostess’s eye made her wonder if she was already envisaging a double wedding. She spent the day with her in Apeldoorn, shopping, arriving back at the same time as an excited Joan, who had spent the day with Dirk. She was flourishing her new engagement ring and teatime talk was almost exclusively of its unique beauty, the forthcoming wedding and the future bride’s speculations as to what exactly she should wear for the occasion, so that when it was time for Britannia to go to her room and change for the evening, she was able to do so with only the smallest amount of interest from her companions.

The professor was in the hall, having just been admitted by Berthe, when she came downstairs, and as she went towards him she said with disarming frankness: ‘I’ve only one dress with me, I hope you don’t mind—you see, I didn’t expect…’ She paused, remembering why she had brought it with her in the first place, so that he looked enquiringly at her.

‘Then why did you bring it?’ he wanted to know. It didn’t occur to her not to tell him the truth.

‘It’s a silly reason.’ She was standing in front of him, looking up into his face. ‘I thought—that is, I imagined that if I did meet you again, I’d like to be wearing something pretty, so that you would—would notice me.’ She added seriously: ‘Of course, I didn’t know then about your house and your Madeleine…’

‘Not my Madeleine. I think that I should have noticed you if you had been wearing an old sack, Britannia.’

She smiled a little shyly. ‘Oh—well…I didn’t know that, did I?’

‘No. Are we really saying goodbye tomorrow, Britannia?’

‘Yes.’ She moved away and began to fasten her coat, and felt hurt when he said quite cheerfully:

‘In that case, we’d better start our evening, hadn’t we?’

They were seen off by a beaming Mevrouw Veske and a hasty wave and gabbled ‘’bye’ from Joan, who was, as she so often was these days, on the telephone to her Dirk, and once in the car the professor observed dryly: ‘What a pity it is that you don’t share Mevrouw Veske’s romantic outlook—now, if you did you might have come tearing down the stairs and flung yourself into my arms, instead of which you greet me with some matter-of-fact remark about your dress. What’s wrong with it, anyway?’

Britannia was put out. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it—it’s a copy of a model, a Jean Allen—but one doesn’t usually wear the same dress on two successive evenings.’

He had turned the car in the direction of Apeldoorn. ‘Why ever not? I wear my dinner jacket for several evenings in a row.’

She chuckled. ‘Now you’re being silly.’ She didn’t add that there was nothing she would have liked better than to have flung herself into his arms. ‘But I was glad to see you.’ And then, in case he had an answer to that, she asked quickly: ‘Have you had a busy day?’

‘Quite a list…’ He began to tell her about the cases and it wasn’t until they were through Hoenderloo that he paused to say: ‘We’re not going to Apeldoorn, by the way. There’s a restaurant on the Amersfoort road that’s quite good. I thought we had better not go too far this evening, I expect you have your packing to do.’

A damping remark which lowered her spirits considerably; she could pack, if necessary, in ten minutes and she would have all tomorrow in which to do it…

She thought his description of De Echoput was sadly understated when they reached it; it was a rather splendid place and the menu card quite baffling in its abundance. Over their drinks she studied it and presently asked the professor to choose for her. ‘Because there’s so much and I don’t know the half of the dishes they offer,’ she explained. ‘You see now what I mean about our backgrounds—imagine having a wife who doesn’t know what Le Râble de Lièvre is—it’s hare, I know, but I don’t know more than that.’ She added thoughtfully: ‘I don’t like hare, anyway; I like to see them running in the fields.’

He smiled at her across the table. ‘So do I, and would it really matter if you can’t read the menu if I’m with you to help you choose?’

She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be as simple as that, and you know it.’

He didn’t answer her, only smiled again and turned to the menu. ‘They have delicious hors d’oeuvres here, shall we start with that—and what about trout? Truite saumone au Champagne. We’ll drink champagne, too, since it’s by way of being an occasion.’

The food was delicious, just as he had said, but Britannia hardly enjoyed it—he had called it an occasion, almost as though he was celebrating… It cost her quite an effort to join in his cheerful talk. Luckily the champagne helped, so that by the time the sweet trolley came round she was able to do full justice to the millefeuille recommended by the professor and, just for a little while, forget that she would never see him again.

Sitting over their coffee he brought the conversation round to her return.

‘You’ll be working next week?’ he wanted to know, ‘or do you go home for a few days?’

The champagne had made Britannia a little careless. ‘I start work on Monday,’ she told him. ‘Even if I didn’t, it would be too far to go home. I’ll wait until I get my weekend.’

‘You plan to stay at St Jude’s?’

She stirred her coffee and didn’t look at him. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Probably not.’

His voice was bland. ‘Of course, the world is your oyster, isn’t it, Britannia? A qualified nurse can go where she pleases.’

Put like that it sounded a lonely business; going from hospital to hospital, probably country to country, getting a little older with each move. She swallowed a great wave of self-pity and heard him say briskly: ‘Well, you don’t need to look so glum; think how fortunate you are compared with a girl who marries; a house to run, a husband to look after, children to bring up, never-ending chores—the poor girl has no life of her own.’

She didn’t want a life of her own, but it wasn’t much use saying so; hadn’t she made it quite clear that she had no intention of marrying him? She asked in a rather high voice: ‘Did you never want to travel?’

He seemed quite willing to follow her lead; they carried on a desultory conversation about nothing in particular until Britannia said that she thought she should return to the Veskes. ‘They’re so kind,’ she spoke brightly. ‘We’ve done exactly what we’ve wanted to do all the time we’ve been staying with them, it’s been a wonderful holiday.’

He had opened the car door for her and paused to ask: ‘And one to remember, Britannia?’

She would never forget it, however hard she tried. She babbled: ‘Oh, rather, it’s been lovely.’ She went on babbling for the entire journey back and the professor tiresomely did nothing to stop her; by the time they had reached the villa she was worn out and so exasperated that she could have burst into tears, although why she wasn’t quite sure. He had behaved exactly as he should have done; he hadn’t mentioned seeing her again; he had accepted the fact that she was going back to England with no apparent disappointment. Either he was a man of iron with no feelings, or he hadn’t meant a word…

Britannia slept badly and got up the next morning with a frayed temper and a pale face, and it didn’t help when she found herself drawn into a cheerful discussion about Joan’s wedding; indeed, a good deal of the morning was spent in reviewing the arrangements already made, re-making them, adding to them and speculating as to the weather, the number of guests and the names of those who just had to be invited, and when this serious business had been thoroughly talked out, there was always the more interesting one of clothes for the important occasion. By the time lunch was over Britannia, her nerves jangling like an ill-tuned piano and longing to be by herself, declared that she simply couldn’t leave Holland without one more cycle ride, and since they weren’t leaving until the evening and she was packed and ready, except for exchanging her slacks and sweater for her suit, she had ample time to indulge her fancy, and Joan and Mevrouw Veske, deep in the merits of various pastel shades, begged her kindly to do just as she wished. ‘Only don’t be late for tea,’ counselled Joan. ‘We shall be leaving round about six o’clock, love.’

Britannia promised, tugged on her hostess’s anorak and gloves and went round to fetch her bike. The day had been overcast, but now it was clearing, to show a cold blue sky turning grey at the edges, and the wind, never absent for long, had gathered strength again. It surprised her to find that it was icy underfoot, but going cautiously down the drive she decided that she was safe enough. The lanes she intended to take were sheltered by the trees and thickets and their surfaces rough, and she was a seasoned cyclist. She knew where she was going, of course—to take one more look at the professor’s home. She wouldn’t be able to see much of it, only its gables and chimney pots, but they were better than nothing.

It would have helped, she reflected as she pedalled down the deserted road, if he had wished her goodbye. But he hadn’t. He had got out of his car and gone to the Veskes’ door with her and opened it, listened to her over-bright thanks with a little smile, assured her that he had enjoyed his evening just as much as she had, wished her the most casual of goodnights without once expressing a wish to see her again, and then stood aside so that she might go in. She couldn’t remember what she had mumbled, certainly nothing of sufficient interest to make him delay his departure. She had gone past him into the hall, afraid that she might burst into tears at any moment, and had heard the door close quietly behind her. There was no knock this time, either; she had heard the soft purr of the Rolls almost immediately, and its almost soundless departure.

She reached the crossroads and turned down the lane. There was still masses of time; she would be able to go further along the wall where the view of the house was much clearer. The lane was a bit tricky, its surface slippery between the ruts, but she went slowly, putting out a leg from time to time to steady herself. She paused as she reached the first vantage point. There was smoke rising from some of the chimneys, blown wildly by the wind, and she wondered who was there. Not Jake, he had mentioned that he had a teaching round in the afternoon and some private patients to see, but his mother perhaps and possibly the beautiful Madeleine, invited there to spend the evening. She might even be staying there. Britannia shivered; the wind was really icy and a few drops of sleet from a sky which had suddenly turned grey again made her wonder if she wouldn’t be wise to turn back. But the gap in the wall wasn’t far, it was a pity to come that distance and give up within half a mile. She mounted her machine once more and pedalled on.

It was worth it, she told herself, when she stopped once more. The house, light shining from its windows in the gathering dusk, looked beautiful. She imagined the cheerful Marinus trotting to and fro about his stately business and Jake’s mother sitting by the fire—she would be embroidering, something complicated and beautiful, to be handed down to other generations of the family in course of time. Britannia, deep in thought, mounted her bike once more, turned too sharply, skidded on an icy patch and fell off. She fell awkwardly and the machine fell on top of her, the handlebars catching her on the side of the head as she hit the ground, and knocking her out.

She came to quite quickly, feeling muzzy, and lay still for a minute, waiting for her head to clear before she attempted to get up. She was aware that she had a nasty headache, rapidly turning into an unpleasant throbbing, and she was also aware of the bitter cold.

‘Well, it won’t do to lie here, my girl,’ she admonished herself in a heartening voice. ‘Get to your feet, warm yourself up and get on your bike and go back as fast as you can.’

Sound advice, but not, she discovered, so easy to carry out. The cycle had fallen across her and she had to wriggle to one side to get free of it, and it was when she began to do this that she discovered that her left ankle was exquisitely painful. She essayed to move it cautiously, and a wave of nausea swept over her so that she was forced to keep still again.

‘Clever girl,’ said Britannia crossly, ‘broken your ankle, have you, or sprained it? Well, you’ll just have to roll yourself to one side.’

It took a few minutes, because the pain was bad and her headache was worsening, but she managed it at last and presently she essayed to sit up, but she jarred the ankle badly doing it and this time the pain made her do something she had never in her life done before—faint.

She came to presently and found herself wishing that she could have remained unconscious for a little longer, for her headache was steadily worsening and the pain in her ankle was making her feel sick. Nevertheless she tried to think what to do; she wouldn’t be missed for a little while yet, and even when she was, no one would have the least idea where to start looking for her. Somehow or other she would have to get herself back to the road. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, because it was at least a mile and the lane would be heavy going. She could try shouting, she supposed, and remembered that the professor had told her that there were no houses nearby. The gardener’s cottage she had seen was, she judged, too far off for anyone there to hear her, but it was worth a try. She called ‘Help!’ several times, upsetting the birds in the thicket around her and listening to her voice being carried away on the wind before deciding that it was a waste of time and breath. She would have to get moving and hope for the best.

She turned herself a little and looked at her ankle. It was already swollen; to get her shoe off would lessen the pain, on the other hand, she would need it for protection against the lane’s deplorable surface, and not only that, it was getting colder every minute and darker too. She rolled over once more and edged herself forward. She had no idea how long she had been crawling along so painfully when her injured ankle brushed against a sharp stone and she fainted again.

Tea was almost finished in the Veskes’ household before Joan remarked: ‘Britannia’s awfully late—I wonder if she’s in her room? I’ll see.’

She came downstairs again looking faintly worried. ‘She’s not there. I wonder where she went? Not to Hoenderloo, I remember she said she wouldn’t be going that way because I asked her to post a letter…’ She looked at her godmother. ‘Where does she go when she goes off on the bike?’

Mevrouw Veske thought deeply. ‘Well, dear, she has made a number of acquaintances, but not the sort who would go for a cycle ride with her. I daresay she goes on her own.’ Her nice face cleared. ‘How stupid of me—I expect she’s gone to say goodbye to that nice Professor Luitingh van Thien. He’s taken her out two evenings running, you know, and they seem to be getting on very well together,’ and when Joan was about to interrupt her: ‘Yes, dear, you’re surprised, but I’m sure she’s had very little time to tell you about that. You’ve been out a good deal yourself and there’s been the wedding to talk of. Shall I telephone him? He’ll be in the book and we have met, although we’re hardly on calling terms, I suppose.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Joan, and as she left the room: ‘Will he be home?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I believe it’s a very large house, there’s bound to be someone in it.’ Mevrouw Veske got to her feet. ‘I’ll do it, Joan. If they don’t understand English it will be a little difficult for you.’

A man answered her call, introduced himself as the house butler and told her that Miss Smith hadn’t been to the house that afternoon. ‘Although I will inform the professor when he returns; he may know something, mevrouw. If I might call you back?’

Marinus replaced the receiver, his cheerful face frowning in thought. The professor had returned home on the previous night in a towering rage all the more formidable for being held in check. He had gone straight to his room and that morning had left early for his consulting rooms in Arnhem, leaving no messages at all and certainly none about Miss Smith. Marinus trod with rather more speed than usual across the hall and down the passage which led to the kitchens, where he found Emmie busy at the kitchen table. He unburdened himself at some length and then asked her advice.

Emmie didn’t pause in her folding of a soufflé mixture. ‘Telephone him at once,’ she suggested. ‘He will wish to know, I think, for he is very interested in this English lady, is he not?’

Marinus looked at his old-fashioned pocket watch. ‘He will be at his rooms, he will have patients…’

His wife began to pour her mixture into a buttered and papered dish. ‘Telephone him,’ she repeated.