You Took My Heart (11 page)

With a sickening sense of shame Joan read on. She was trembling and white, turning away at last to take her blue cloak from its peg in the hall alcove. “How did they get hold of all this Greta?” she asked in bewilderment. “Who on earth has been talking?”

“Search me!” giggled Greta happily. “This’ll make the Committee sit up again, won’t it? They’ll be wild at having their holy St. Angela’s dragged into the paper like this. The pictures of Mrs. Perros in her dancing clothes and all!”

“It’s the worst possible thing that could have happened,” Joan murmured brokenly, going out into the dark icy morning. She felt physically sick with misery crossing the muddy, lamp-lit square. This would hurt Garth much more than any other thing that had gone before. It was awful—so degrading, so unnecessary, having his private life dragged out in public this way for the mobs of the world to read over their breakfast tables. It would break his heart, wound him to the very soul, Garth, with his pride and his dignity! It was the sort of unhappy publicity which it would take years to live down.

Moving through her duties through the long hours of the morning she scarcely knew what she was doing. The hospital, of course, was seething with the day’s fresh sensation. Nurses and Sisters, even wardsmaids and scrub-women and patients discussing it—tittering over it, newspapers fluttering on the locker-tops, in ward-kitchens.

And Garth! Joan couldn’t bear to be around when he came in to look at Dilly. She couldn’t bear to see his face stricken and shamed before this whispering, stupid world of malicious tongues. She hid herself in side rooms and lobbies, tell
ing
herself that she was a coward, that it was her duty to walk out and find Garth today of all days. To comfort him—if there was any comfort.

She let him go right out of the place in the end before she could drag herself after him. He was getting into his car after his morning rounds when she ran down the front steps of the hospital, defying all laws and convention for the proper behaviour of probationers.

In a thin gleam of wintry sunshine she stood there before him, very young and tense, her hands clasped feverishly together. There were tears in her warm blue eyes suddenly because the face Garth turned to her was so wan somehow, so quiet and finished. He looked old and tired. He looked
broken
. It was worse, much worse than if he had been in one of his immense and blustering rages.

She gulped, “Oh, Garth, I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry! I can’t think who can be responsible for this mischievous newspaper story.”

He regarded her steadily. There was no flicker of response to her quick sympathy in the level gaze of his grey eyes.

He said in a weary way, “Can’t you really think who it is that is responsible? Then maybe I can enlighten you. It is none other than your friend of the other night—the man who was with you at the Carchester last week. He came to see Vera yesterday and she threw him out on his ear—refusing to answer his questions. Then apparently,” Garth laughed unpleasantly, “this enterprising news-hawk of yours, who seems to be so very familiar with our daily routine, went off to the park and waylaid Ivan and Mrs. Eldon on their morning walk. He had a photographer with him—as you will have noticed. Got some nice photographs of my son, too, didn’t he?”

Joan felt as though the world were spinning round her. Barney O’Crea! So it was Barney who had done this thing. And Garth had called him her
friend
! Garth thought ... what? What could he think but the one awful, obvious thing. It was like some hideous, horrible dream.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

She
said haltingly, “Garth—you don’t think—you
can’t
think that I—?” She felt sick in her very soul, waiting for his reassurance, waiting for him to say: “It’s all right, Joanna. Of course I know you wouldn’t discuss my affairs with anybody!”

B
ut he only said, “Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk, is it? I’m sure you didn’t mean this to happen. You wouldn’t know how much a clever newspaper man can make of an indiscreet word or so when he senses a good story. And this
is
a good story—successful surgeon and starving, deserted wife: with an invalid child to bring me at last to my senses! Makes me look one hell of a fine fellow, doesn’t it!” He laughed unpleasantly. The knuckles of his hands were white on the wheel suddenly. With a savage movement he threw the car noisily into gear.

“And for heaven’s sake don’t look so worried over it, child! I’m not blaming you,” he called impatiently above the sound of the running engine. Then he was gone.

For a moment Joan stood perfectly still on the white steps. Then she began to move slowly through the pale sunlight. Her legs felt like pieces of wood—vague, uncontrollable limbs that didn’t belong to her, but which, nevertheless obligingly contrived to propel her in the direction she had to take. High overhead in its glittering tower the hospital bell struck twelve silver chimes and the pigeons went fluttering away at the sound of it, turning, and wheeling in the brief noon sunshine, their white wings flashing.

In the dining-room of the Home nurses collected for the first lunch, chattering endlessly. Joan crept to her place and Gemma was there beside her, a rather subdued Gemma crumbling bread nervously, eyeing her white-faced companion with a look that was half ashamed, half defiant.

“I’m sorry, Langden! Honestly, I’m sorry—” she mumbled miserably.

“When did you see Barney?” Joan asked bluntly, without preliminaries.

“Night before last. Just after the Committee Meeting. I didn’t tell him much—really I didn’t! But I was so full of it all I just had to talk about it. He asked a whole lot of questions, of course, and I tried not to answer them—I never thought he’d make all this out of it!”

“But you told him about Mrs. Eldon taking Ivan into the park every morning?”

“Yes, I told him that—curse him! And of course he went rushing off to the park next day, and what I left out of the story that old rag-bag of an Eldon woman supplied. Honestly, Joan, I’m sorry! I could kick myself.” Gemma’s bright eyes were near to tears.

Joan said dully, “He thinks
I
did the talking. He’s furious with me.”

“Garth?” whispered Gemma in awe. “Oh, Lord, how awful! And the old family friendship is going to be broken up on the head of it?”

“Looks like it,” Joan said shortly.

“This thing gets worse every minute,” sighed Gemma in distraction. “I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world, Joan. You know that, don’t you?”

Joan nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said bleakly. “It’s just one of those things. I’ll get over it.”

They left it at that, Gemma toying unhappily with Irish stew, leaving her favorite ginger pudding untouched. As soon as Miss Don had murmured the concluding Grace she scrambled from her seat and disappeared. Joan didn’t know and wouldn’t have cared particularly, but it was to the telephone kiosk at the corner of the square Gemma went running. She was pale and determined, picking up the receiver, fumbling in the directory for a number. Then she dialled and waited, her teeth chattering with fright.

When, later in the afternoon, Joan had her two hours off duty she took a library book to her room, lay on her bed and tried to read. But the book didn’t seem to make sense, although it was by an author she liked and usually devoured with avidity. After a while she threw it aside and got up, rammed a tam-o’-shanter on her brown-gold curls, slipped a loose, dark coat over her uniform and went out.

It was cold and raw with a promise of frost in the greeny sky. Aimlessly she walked, watching the short day die, coming presently to the river where the flat Dutch barges floated on a swollen tide. There was a harsh wind here whipping the water into miniature waves, making her eyes run and her cheeks ache with cold. She turned to escape from it and found herself in a narrow
side street congested with newspaper vans and drays bearing great rolls of paper. In the gathering dusk the illuminated signs of half a dozen famous journals twinkled and flashed. This was the land of printer’s ink and whirring rotary presses, under her feet the very pavement trembled with the thunder of hidden machinery. She had come unwittingly to the street of the
Morning Clarion
, and seeing its glass and chromium entrance she quickened her pace, paling at the thought of a chance meeting with Barney O’Crea. She was almost running in her effort to get away quickly to the wider thoroughfare ahead with its shops and familiar red buses.

She never wanted to see Barney again, she told herself. Never as long as she lived! Even when she was quite old, she would not recall his name without feeling this awful blank of aching misery. He had robbed her of everything she most valued in the world. He had taken away from her the last pitiful shreds of Garth’s liking, the whole of his trust. Garth hated her now. Garth despised her. And it was Barney’s fault. She was white-lipped and despairing, seizing on the first bus she could find to take her back to hospital.

The lights were blazing in the shops now, in the winter dusk shopping crowds thronged the pavements. The sound of tea-time music floated from restaurants; flower women with red, cheerful faces held out unseasonable roses, violets and tiny waxen lilies, and over the great buildings electric night signs rippled and flamed, ruby and gold and green. It was a friendly, easy hour, the work of the day almost over, the pleasures of night calling enticingly from gilded theatre domes and shining cinema doorways.

Crouched in her seat Joan watched the passing scene, only half conscious of it, her heart tight and hot, shut in with its inescapable pain.

When at last she got back to the Nurses’ Home she was limp and weary; much more weary, she thought, than if she had spent the afternoon scurrying about the wards. That was what brooding did for you. That was what came of being alone to think. Hurrying up the steps, ringing at the neat brass bell, she was impatient suddenly for the stir and bustle of the wards, for the sound of the children’s voices once more, the sharp orders of the staff nurses—anything, anything would be better than her own sick thoughts.

Greta the parlormaid opening the door told her there was a telephone message for her. From Mr. Perros. Would she ring him at Welbeck 00113 as soon as she got in. He had ’phoned twice during the afternoon in the hope of finding her.

Joan listened in a dazed silence, then turned and went out of the door again. She would ’phone Garth from the kiosk in the square. Not from the Home hall. She couldn’t talk to him there with Greta’s sharp ears probably just round the corner waiting to hear what they said. For Garth was “news” today. Everything about Garth was exciting—even to the Gretas of the hospital. For, of course, he would resign now. The Committees would in
s
ist on it. They could hardly be expected to swallow with equanimity this blaze of unpleasant publicity in which their favorite honorary had involved them.

With a sigh, Greta watched Joan’s long slim legs vanish down the steps. She had hung around in the hopes of discovering just why Mr. Perros should be telephoning her with that eager, almost joyful sound in his voice. But apparently she had hung around in vain. Nurse Langden was a sly one and no mistake to go and take the call outside!

In the frost-misted glass box under the wintry trees Joan was saying breathlessly, “Yes, Garth. You wanted me?”

“I did indeed, Joanna!” His tone was warm and generous—like life pouring into her cold, frightened little heart; He said, “I owe you an apology, my dear. I’m sorry. About this morning, I mean. It was beastly of me to think—what I did think for a little while, that you had been indiscreet. I know now, you see, who it was that provided the enterprising Mr. Barney somebody with his
Morning Clarion
exclusive and I’m covered with shame, simply wallowing in it. For doubting you! Can you forgive me?”

“Garth!” she sighed rapturously, not asking him yet how he knew the real culprit; not able to think of anything but the blessed relief his words had brought to her. “Oh, Garth, I’m so glad! Not that this makes it any better for you—the silly story still stands, I know. But I couldn’t
bear
it when I realized you thought I’d had a hand in it.”

“I was a blithering idiot, Joanna,” he said softly, “And this
does
make it better. I can put up with quite a lot of wounding from the ordinary folk of this world. But I can’t put up with even the suspicion of disloyalty from you—because, oh, well, I’d better not tell you the reason, my dear! But it hurt more than anything else this morning when I remembered that journalist chap knew you and I thought—”

“It was a mad thing to think, Garth. You musn’t ever think it again. I’d cut my heart out rather than hurt you in any way.”

He was silent a moment. Then he said, “I think I’m just beginning to realize that, Joanna! I’m beginning to suspect, too, that I was a bit of a fool down at Dipley. A hasty, impulsive fool!”

She couldn’t answer that. The pulses were throbbing in her temples, in her soft white throat, her red lips were parted. Like a wondering child she stood there in the bright little glass box hearing him sigh now, hearing him say passionately, “I wish I could tear away this distance between us. The telephone is a devil’s invention, Joanna! Why can’t I see your face?”

“Maybe it’s well you
can’t
, Garth,” she whispered so low that she did not think he could catch it. But he did.

He said, “It was always a tell-tale little face, Joanna. It was that dark and dreadful Sunday when you sent me away from you, but I was too blind to see clearly that day. It’s only thinking about it since, this very afternoon to be exact, that I’ve got the whole thing straightened out.”

“How straightened out, Garth? What do you mean?” she faltered, dreading his answer now, longing for it.

“It’s a bit too late to go into that, darling,” he said, his voice breaking. “But there’s one thing I’d like to point out before we drop this subject forever, and that is—when you next set about cutting your heart out for my sake will you remember that you stand more than a remote chance of cutting
mine
out too! Our hearts are a bit too mixed up for that sort of altruism.”

“Garth!” she cried wildly, “you’re talking in riddles tonight.”

“It’s the only way left for us to talk,” he told her sadly.

The rest of the conversation was to Joan a warm and confused blur, an exchange of words that didn’t matter greatly because there were no words which could express the wonder, the relief of Garth’s change of manner. Garth understood—not only about the silly newspaper affair, Garth suddenly miraculously, understood everything! Somehow, by intuition or the sheer telepathy of lovers, he had arrived at the truth behind their troubled days at Dipley. He knew now that she had not sent him away from lack of love. It was too wonderful, too dangerously sweet. Garth was married to Vera, hopelessly committed to her now for the sake of their boy. But it was not Vera he loved—it was herself. Joan hugged the thought with a delirious rapture, all the more beautiful because of the bleak days of coldness between them.

Oh, she could bear anything now, she told herself, hearing Garth’s voice half-amused, half-annoyed, telling her how Gemma had ’phoned him and bravely confessed to her too mischievous, chattering tongue. Gemma, she agreed, was a little baggage, but a brick, nevertheless, an entirely decent and courageous brick.

And then somehow they were talking about Vera and not even that could quite shatter the rich happiness which wrapped Joan about. Vera was upset by the newspaper
debacle
—much more so than Garth. “She feels she has brought me nothing but bad luck, poor kid,” Garth explained. “She dreads the effect of all this on my hospital connections and fears it will rob me of my hospital friends. Today she spoke of you: said it was odd that you had never called on her again in spite of her repeated invitations. She is, of course, unduly sensitive about that kind of thing at the moment. It’s natural enough that she should be. But—” he hesitated—“I’d be grateful if you
would
come along and see her sometime, Joanna!”

“Of course I will,” Joan answered quickly, with a cold sinking of her heart. She hadn’t wanted to see Vera as Mrs. Garth Perros. She’d told herself she couldn’t bear it. But Garth wanted her to call on his wife—it was Garth asking so humbly, so wistfully at the other end of the line. For Garth’s sake then...

“Will you come on Tuesday? It’s Vera’s birthday. She is having a small afternoon party,” he was saying.

“I shall love to come, Garth,” she assured him.

* * * *

In the days that followed she went about torn with doubts, dreading her visit to Vera, hating the thought of it. Vera had written to her to confirm the invitation, an effusive, friendly note. There was no getting out of it. She would have to put a bold face on it and turn up at Mrs. Garth Perros’s birthday party as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. She would have to see Garth—her own dear Garth with this stranger who was so strangely his wife. And it would be doubly difficult now his heart was cleared of its last misunderstanding; the sweet forbidden secret of their love trembling in every glance between them! Oh, she would have to walk warily, warily in this unhappy situation. She would have to be brave, to be strong.

She was quite sick with suppressed emotion at last dressing herself after lunch that Tuesday afternoon which was her half-day off. Her small hands were clammy and cold fastening the buttons of her plain black frock, slipping on the single row of pearls which had belonged to her mother. Whatever she wore she felt she could not compete with Vera and her picturesque shabbiness, her bizarre and startling jewellery. Vera would always look strikingly lovely. She was so golden, so statuesque, so altogether romantic and unfairly beautiful, with her perfect dancer’s body, her easy, graceful movements!

With a sigh Joan put on the small swathe of black velvet which perched so lightly on her gleaming hair. She took her fur coat from the wardrobe, a soft grey squirrel which had been her father’s last Christmas present to her. It was well cut, it was good. It made her feel faintly luxurious after all as she went out into the chill air. And snuggling her round, childish chin into its cosy collar, she braced herself for whatever this strange visit might bring.

If brought her, to begin with, her first view of Garth’s London home; the large, cold colored rooms with their modern furniture, their bare hard-wood floors. There were a few Persian rugs, one or two Japanese prints, a sprinkling of drab cushions. There were stiff-looking chrysanthemums standing bolt upright in stiff-looking vases. It was all so clearly a bachelor’s effort at interior decoration. There was no touch of home anywhere. It was bleak. It was masculine, and not even Vera in her rich green gown and flashing ear-rings could quite transform it to effeminacy.

She doesn’t care about this place, she
can’t
, was Joan’s reflection as she seated herself on a slippery leather chair. No woman who loved a house could live in it even a week and still have it looking like this. It needed softening, brightening. With her quick imagination Joan filled the place with great bunches of crimson autumn leaves, thick rugs of fur, gaily colored curtains and cushions. As it stood it was more like the professional man’s waiting-room: which in all probability it had been before Vera had turned it to purposes of entertainment.

But with my tall grandfather clock in that corner, Joan thought, my Queen Anne desk, a couple of deep, comfortable couches instead of all this hard, modern stuff, a real fire in that beautiful old grate—how different this room would be!

Abstractedly she replied to Vera’s kindly greetings, listened to her rather gushing thanks for the simple birthday offering of roses she had brought.

Garth had had to go out on a call, Vera said. He would be back, she hoped, later on. But you never knew with Garth. Doctors, it seemed, lived the most fantastic lives! She shrugged disgustedly.

Other guests began to arrive—theatrical folk mostly who greeted Vera noisily, filling the room with cigarette smoke and loud, over-emphatic conversation. Of Joan they took little notice.

There was one. man in particular who caught her attention, because of his attitude to Vera; he was Russian like herself; his name was Stefan. He was good-looking in a queer oriental way, with sombre, dark eyes which never left his hostess for one moment. He was, Joan felt, almost indecently open in his attention to her, attention which for the most part she received casually as though she were long accustomed to them.

Stefan had brought an enormous jar of caviare for the birthday. There was rapturous approval on all sides for this, and a fat man rushed off in a taxi-cab to purchase the vodka they all said simply
must
go with it.

They would have vodka and caviare for tea, instead of those awful English crumpets, Vera decided, and told the maid to take away the conventional silver tray with its steaming tea-urn and plates of cake. Joan saw it go with a pang. She was healthily hungry in spite of her emotions, and she might, she felt, have been asked if she preferred caviare. But apparently it was so unthinkable
not
to prefer caviare that it hadn’t occurred to Vera to consult her guests.

Thin toast was brought in, wafers of brown bread and butter, slices of lemon. The fat man who had gone for vodka returned with pleveian bottles under his arms. The feast began.

Joan, nibbling at toast spread with the juicy, black substance, wondered at its delicate,
ski
flavour, its subtle richness, and presently forgot to regret hot crumpets and little iced cakes. This stuff—direct from Moscow by plane, Stefan said—was a revelation of what caviare ought to be, something miles removed from the rather tasteless smears on cocktail biscuits which Joan had encountered before. This was really marvellous!

The vodka wasn’t quite such a success. For the life of her Joan couldn’t help gasping over the fiery drink. The fat man, now sitting beside her, laughed good-naturedly at her grimaces and told her to swallow it off at one gulp. That was the only way to deal with it, he said. It was hopeless to sip at it so ladylike a fashion.

There was more caviare, more vodka. The room grew noisier and noisier. Everyone screamed “shop” at the tops of their voices. New shows, old shows—this person’s wonderful “fat” part, that person’s ,deplorable performance. Stefan, it appeared, was an author, quite a famous one. He was writing a play for Vera. The chance of her life at last, she said laughingly, a straight lead in straight drama.

“That is, of course, if my husband
allows
me to accept the part!” she went on with a queer little smile “Garth doesn’t care for the stage, it seems. He is very insistent that I shall give up my acting.” Her tone was scornful.

There was a hoot of derisive laughter at this. It was such a scream, they said, thinking of Vera with a husband to order her about; Vera with her pride and her independence! It would be a shame if her career were to be interfered with, her
art.

“Garth won’t interfere,” Vera put in drily. “I’ll get my own way about Stefan’s play. I always do get my own way in the end over anything important. I see to that!” She put a reassuring hand on Stefan’s aim and smiled at him. He looked down at her adoringly, taking the white, pink tipped fingers, pressing them to his lips, kissing them.

Joan turned away, flushing uncomfortably. She wished she hadn’t come. She
hated
it. Vera was different today in this mob of noisy admirers. Not the same Vera she had been in the humble rooms at Mull Street, not at all the same woman who had knelt weeping by Ivan’s bed in Dale Ward! She was harder in this setting, much more sophisticated.

Almost as though she was aware of this unspoken disapproval Vera detached herself at that moment from Stefan and his group and came to Joan’s side. The smile in her long, slanting eyes was gentle. “It was so good of you to come today, ’ she whispered in an aside. “I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been so terribly disturbed about this newspaper publicity for Garth’s sake. Do you think the Hospital Committee will take a serious view of it?”

“I hope not,” Joan said as consolingly as she could. “I don’t see how they can take too serious a view of it when they have already heard the story of his marriage from Garths own lips.”

“You mean at that Board Meeting last week. But that was different somehow. This makes us both sound so awful, so cheap! All that stuff about me struggling along in my poverty, hiding my baby; making it sound too as though Garth hadn’t tried very hard to look for me because he was so occupied with his own money-making and success.”

“But where did the
Clarion
get all that? I still can’t work it out,” Joan put in with a frown.

“It was Mrs. Eldon, I expect. You see, when we came here and Garth’s servants were suspicious of me, I talked to Mrs. Eldon a bit—gave her a simple version of our marriage and separation. It was silly of me, I suppose, but I thought she might smooth things over with the domestics. It never occurred to me how it might sound handed on to a reporter for publication!” Vera laughed and shrugged. “It’s just bad luck. But I’m most horribly sorry it happened. It will be just too terrible if the Hospital ask Garth to resign!”

“Have they said anything yet?” Joan asked breathlessly.

“Not yet. They’re lying low for the moment, it seems. But with every post that comes we expect a letter from them. It makes Garth so jumpy and wretched.” Vera sighed. Then she turned to Joan with her sudden, sweet smile. “Anyhow, it was charming of you to come and see the outcasts. It’s nice to think there is
someone
at St. Angela’s who isn’t shocked to death at us for being married!”

Joan mumbled, “But of course I’m not shocked, Mrs. Perros! Why should I be? If it’s not too late in the day I’d like to say I congratulate you—that I give you my best wishes—” The words trailed away. Somehow they sounded all wrong and unconvincing. Vera gave her a mischievous look.

“And Garth?” she asked. “Would you be so ready to congratulate him?”

For the life of her Joan couldn’t answer that question at once. Then she began something labored, conventional. Vera smiled again.

“It’s a shame to tease you!” she said in her rich
,
husky voice. “Garth is dear to you. I know. You’ve been his friend so many years; living so close to him at home. He’s told me. You’ve been like a sister to him—almost.” (There was an odd emphasis on the last word.) “And then having all this come out about his secret marriage to me so many years ago; of course it has been a shock to you—all of you. But you’re being very sweet about it. This morning Garth’s mother was charming. But most charming! Actually called me her dear daughter, and she has already taken Ivan to her heart.”

“Garth’s mother? Is she here, then?” Joan asked in an inward panic. Somehow she had forgotten all about the old folk at Dipley these last hectic days.

“Yes. She came rushing up on Friday when that newspaper story appeared. Of course she had known about us before. Garth had written to her that we decided to patch up our affairs. She’s out with Ivan at the moment and—well, here she is!” Vera concluded as the door opened and a beaming be-furred Mrs. Perros came in leading Ivan by the hand.

“We’ve been to the Zoo!” he cried, rushing to Vera’s side excitedly. “We’ve seen little monkeys, and penguin birds and a baby lion that let me touch it. I stroked its head. I rode on a Nelephant!”

In an instant Vera was a changed woman, all her sophistication dropping from her like magic as she took off Ivan’s small shoes and felt at his socks for any lurking dampness there might be. Eagerly she questioned him about his expedition, ringing for hot milk for him, for warm slippers. The theatrical guests fell into a bored silence. But their hostess now seemed unaware of them. Even Stefan taking his leave with melancholy grace left her unmoved.

“Good-bye, Stefan,” she murmured abstractedly. “Yes. Yes. Thursday. I’ll remember. I’d love to come and hear the play read, but it will have to be late—after Ivan is safely in bed.”

She’s crazy about that child, Joan caught herself thinking, almost
too
crazy. It can’t be good for him—She never takes her eyes off him for one single moment when he is in the room.

One by one the neglected guests disappeared. And with the thinning out of the crowd Joan became co
n
spicuous in her secluded corner. Mrs. Perros came over to her, a strange look, half embarrassment, half apology on her kindly countenance. “Joan, my dear,” she murmured, kissing the wistful little face. “I hadn’t realized that you would be here—that you—er—knew Vera.”

“But of course,” Joan said bravely, “Vera and I are old friends. We met at Dale when Ivan was ill.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Perros agreed. “I had forgotten.” She seated herself on the stiff chair beside Joan’s and throwing back her furs looked round rather blankly. It was as though she didn’t quite know what to say next. When her eyes met Joan’s they were full of bewilderment and pain.

“We had such a nice walk, Ivan and I,” she murmured lamely at last.

Vera took the small boy by the hand and said she thought she had better give him his warm bath straight away. “It’s so cold today and he looks quite blue. I think a bath will save him from catching a chill. He shall come back again in his dressing gown until dinner-time.”

“And I’ll bring Mr. Dippy,” he promised Joan with an excited nod of his fair head.

“There’s vodka and lots of caviare,” Vera called over her shoulder. “Do look after yourself, Grannie.”

Alone, Joan and Mrs. Perros exchanged eloquent glances. But all Mrs. Perros said was, “Vodka, indeed, at my time of life.” With a determined air she rang the bell and when the maid appeared demanded tea. “Lots of it, nice and hot and some buttered crumpets and cakes.”

The maid retired and the ominous silence fell once more.

“It’s so odd to hear you called ‘Grannie’!” Joan managed at last in an odd tight little voice.