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  It was Mrs. Austin who put in the only word of caution that dizzy afternoon.

  While the car and Rita's coat were making a sensation in the dingy back street, Mrs. Austin snatched a word with me. "Ducks," she said, squeezing my hand in her vast, damp one, "I know it's not my business, but I must ask you are you sure this is orl orl right?"

  "Perfectly," I assured her light-heartedly. "It's absolutely marvellous. Mrs. Fayre's offered me a wonderful job. I'll come to see you next week."

  Her coarse, kindly face did not alter. "Mind yer do," she said. "I'll be worrying. You do read of such things. I'd trust you anywhere, but oh, ducks, are you sure it's orl above-board?"

  "It's perfectly all right," I assured her. "Mrs. Fayre and I were friends at school."

  "Ow, why didn't yer say so?" Her relief was ludicrous. "Of course, if you was friends at school, that explains everything. Orf you go, and mind yer step."

  It was not until I was back in the car that I recollected that Rita and I hardly had been friends at school; but by that time she was setting out to be so charming to me that a trivial misstatement like that seemed a matter less than nothing.

  • • •

  I fell in love with the house as soon as I saw it. We came upon it suddenly when we turned toward the river at Richmond. It lay among lawns at the water's edge, a rosy rectangle of Georgian brick, with a sugar-loaf roof and two modern wings, and the lights in its tall windows welcomed us in the windy gloom.

  I stepped under a canopied porch into a wide hall, which was cool and gracious and smelled faintly of wax polish and flowers. An elderly butler, a wisp of a man with close-cropped white hair, came to meet us and showed no flicker of surprise as the chauffeur followed with my suitcases. I might have been expected. It was the friendliest, happiest of homes, I should have said, had it not been for one little incident.

  Rita paused to speak to the butler, and as she turned away, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was gone in a moment, but I saw it-a gleam of unmistakable venom in his old eyes.. He looked as if he loathed her. It passed through my mind then, at the beginning, that there was probably a lot about Rita I had yet to discover.

  "Leave everything. They'll see to it," she said, putting an arm round my shoulders. "We'll go and see who's in the studio, shall we? There's usually someone here about six. I adore people to drop in, don't you?" Still talking, she swept me down a wide passage to a door set under an archway at the end. It was partly open, and I heard voices and the clink of glasses as we approached.

  "Oh, isn't this fun!" her arm tightened. "You're taking years off me, Gillie."

  It was fun, of course, tremendous fun, and I glanced round curiously at a vast, panelled drawing room, which had been modernised and done over in grey and white, with brilliant colours coming from the canvases on the walls. There were about a dozen people present, but they looked a crowd to me. Sherry was in circulation, and there was a general cry of welcome as we appeared.

  "Darlings, I'm exhausted!" Rita went in with a rush, taking me too. "I've been back to school, and it's nearly killed me. Meet my adopted sister, everybody. Can't you just see us both in pigtails?"

  "Just, but only if the child was in a pram." The man who spoke came over, with brimming glasses held out to us. He dropped a casual kiss on the cheek Rita raised to him, and smiled at me with ironical approval. I assumed him to be Julian Fayre, Rita's husband, until she corrected me.

  "This is Ferdie, Gillie. Not a nice man. Don't trust him. We only put up with him because of his money. How much older than Gillie do I really look, Ferdie?" He murmured something in her ear.

  She pretended to be furious and appealed to me. "Darling, do I look like your mother? What a horrible person he is. Come along, I want to show you to someone much more intelligent."

  We went on through the gathering, and the badinage continued all around us.

  "Sweetly, pretty, Rita. Wherever did you find her?" a woman called.

  "Nize little girl," declared a rosy individual, who, I am certain, saw two of me.

  Rita smiled at them all, but did not pause, leading me across the room to where, on an enormous leather couch, a man sat watching us. He got up as we approached and took both her hands, but his eyes were on me. I saw a plump, middle-aged foreigner, carefully, almost foppishly dressed, with a pale, heavy face and round brown eyes. He wore a small black imperial, which enhanced the fullness of his lips, and I disliked him on sight for his way of peering into one's eyes, which I found disconcerting. I did hope he was not the husband.

  "Adorable lady," he said to Rita, revealing a high voice and a strong accent, "you look so tired. Come and sit here with old Henri." He was still looking at me, and I smiled politely.

  Rita seated herself, drawing me down beside her. "Gillie, my angel, this is Dr. Phoebus, who thinks he is the most brilliant man in London. That's so, isn't it, Henri?"

  "Possibly, yes," he agreed affably. "I'm not quite sure yet. Maybe. She pulls my leg all the time," he added, settling himself so that I was between them. "I am only her entrepreneur, you understand. I merely present her. I am the easel, she is the picture. She is the genius. Did she tell you that?"

  "I was beginning to guess it," I said.

  He had a gently teasing way, which was not altogether unpleasant, but I still did not like him.

  Rita was excited and, unless I imagined it, very eager to please. She launched at once into a description of the school party. She made it sound very amusing, and Phoebus sat nodding and smiling, but his eyes never left my face.

  "And so you found this little one?" he said presently.

  "At last. Wasn't I lucky? She was my only real friend at school, you know. The only one I remember, at any rate. She'll save my life here. Isn't she sweet, Henri?"

  "Sweet?" he said. "Yes, and probably good. Charming. But not the hat-that is terrible. Why do you wear it, Miss Brayton? It does not suit you."

  I stared at him, not because of his remark, but because he'd used my name. It had not been mentioned since we entered the house.

  Rita was aware of it too. She put a hand over mine. "I've talked of you such a lot, Gillie," she said deliberately. "Henri's always hearing about my school days. It is a horrid hat, dear. Do take it off."

  The direct request sidetracked me, and I removed the bonnet in embarrassment.

  Phoebus took it from me at once and turned it round critically in his plump white hands. '"Bad," he said; "it is not style, it is only fuss. I forbid you to wear it again. In fact, I forbid any woman to wear it. It is a monstrosity, isn't it?"

  He got up as he spoke, and Rita began to laugh. I had no idea what he was going to do, and his movement, when it came, took me by surprise. He went quietly to the blazing fire and put the hat on it. One moment it was in his hand in all its foolish coquetry, and the next it was blazing like a paper fire balloon; the flames swallowed the net and ribbons greedily, and the pink chiffon rose on the crown nodded as it blackened and died. I was frankly aghast. I hardly heard the crow of laughter that greeted the incident. I felt I was in a room full of lunatics.

  "Hey," I said, jumping up, and the laughter echoed all over the room.

  "My sweet," Rita said, hugging me, "don't. Don't look like that, my pet. You shall have twenty hats tomorrow. Henri, you brute, she's going to cry."

  "Is she? I must see that." He came trotting back to look into my face again. "No. Not a tear. Of course not, she has too much taste."

  "It's all right with me," I said, disengaging myself from the two of them, "if you'll do the explaining to Clohilde."

  "Of course we will, darling." Rita was still laughing, still clutching me, and she began to irritate me.

  They were both treating me as If I were a pretty puppy someone had brought in; but while he, I suspected, was uneasy under all his affectations, she was triumphant and overexcited about something. I was prepared to put up with anything within reason, but there was something going on that I was not following at all. It was very uncomfortable.


  "What do you think of her, Henri?" she said presently. "Isn't she absolutely perfect for it?"

  He looked at me gravely. There was no amusement in his face, only earnest appraisal. "Perfect," he said slowly. "You are a very remarkable woman, Rita."

  "Am I?" She was laughing at him, and for the first time he looked at her directly, his eyes fixed on her dark, reckless face.

  "Terrifyingly so," he said after a pause. And then he shuddered; I saw the tremor run through him as he turned away.

  Rita's hand closed tightly on my arm. "Go up to your room now, Gillie, will you? Ask a servant where it is. Do you mind?"

  I said no, of course not, but she had startled me considerably. She had become very pale, and when she spoke to me, she did not meet my eyes.

  • • •

  When I left my bedroom, which was in the old part of the house and possessed a powder closet that had been transformed into a tiny, tiled bathroom, I did not go back to the studio. Everyone had gone out, for one thing.

  Rita, looking superb in white moire and diamonds, had come to my room just as I was unpacking the last of my possessions. She was in a fantastic hurry, she said, but she had to run in and explain, because it did seem such a shame on my first night. However, I mustn't mind one little bit, for she'd make it all up to me later, and it really would do me good to go to bed early and get some nice sleep, wouldn't it? They were all going off to a reception. We'd have a lovely talk in the morning, and meanwhile old Mrs. Munsen, the housekeeper, would find me something exciting to eat and-oh, I'd be all right, wouldn't I?

  It was all I could do not to laugh at her. She had forgotten the difference between twenty and thirteen, I thought. Some of that may have been my fault. I was still wearing the junior-miss dresses I had had at school, and I was certainly childishly delighted to find myself again in the kind of background I'd had long ago.

  The room was charming, very like the one I'd slept in at Mentone one year when Uncle Grey and I went visiting the noblesse down there. "Don't worry about me," I assured her. "I'm having a lovely time. I'll start work tomorrow."

  She said I was the dearest thing, blew a kiss at me, took her cloak from her maid, who had followed her to my room, and fled downstairs to Phoebus.

  I dined alone and in state in a room that would have seated thirty people. The butler, whose name turned out to be Rudkin, waited on me, and after one tentative remark about the weather, which he snubbed, I gave up trying to be friendly. Evidently his dislike of Rita extended to her friends. It was a long meal, and I ate it in silence.

  After the coffee he unbent sufficiently to pause beside my chair. "If you would prefer to sit in the smaller drawing room, miss, I will take you there now."

  I thanked him, and we set out through the brightly lighted but utterly silent house. He opened a door at last.

  "There are cigarettes on the fireside table, miss. When you wish to retire, if you would touch the bell, a maid will take you back to your room."

  It was all very lonely and formal, rather like staying with a rich great-aunt who had forgotten one was coming.

  This new room was like a great-aunt, too, but there was character here as well as formality, and I suspected Rudkin of softening toward me for him to trust me in it. It was a period gem, each piece chosen with knowledge and kept perfectly. There were little homely touches, too-side tables with caddies on them, and even a petit-point frame with a half-worked panel in it, as though someone had just laid it down. The whole thing was most unlike Rita. That thought had been tapping on the door of my mind all through dinner. The servants themselves were rather unexpected, considered in conjunction with her; their smartness was very different from hers. It seemed odd to find the two opposing styles in the same house.

  It was about half an hour, I suppose, before I ventured to go out into the garden. The glass doors were hidden behind long plum-coloured velvet curtains, and when I pulled them back, bright moonlight streamed in on me. The night was so clear that I almost could distinguish the chrysanthemums in the borders that ran down to the water's edge. I stepped out quietly and wandered among the formal grass plots, feeling utterly happy. I was desperately grateful to Rita, and not least for going off and leaving me to discover all this alone.

  I explored the garden as thoroughly as I could by moonlight and then wandered back to the house. It really was a glorious place; there still were lights in most of the windows, and I could walk along on the grass path and see all the interiors spread out before me like old Dutch paintings. There were the kitchens, where the servants were at a meal, a cosy little room I took to be the housekeeper's, and another that might have been a library. Then there was a gap, and I turned a corner to the west-side of the building, which was partially enclosed by a small walled garden of its own. I thought it was in darkness, at first, and had just decided to go back when I caught the gleam of a fire burning in a room that otherwise had no light. I went closer and peered in through a pair of French doors. It seemed to be a music room-at least, there was a baby grand standing on the polished boards, and I fancied I could see a cello case in a corner. It was impudence, of course, but I had to go in. It was a year since I'd seen a piano, and my hands itched to try that one. I thought that if I played softly I should not be heard from the kitchens.

  The doors opened quietly, and I stepped in to warmth that was grateful after the autumn night. For a moment I stood hesitating, but there was no sound except the crackling of the fire, and I tiptoed over and sat down.

  The moment my fingers found the keys I gave up worrying about anything. I sat there playing very softly for nearly an hour. I was abominably out of practice-it shocked me to find out how much and I vowed to practice every day if I got the chance. I got down to some scales right away, in fact, and worked hard for quite a time. It was marvellous to be sitting there in the warm darkness, making music and forgetting everything else in the world. I had paused and was rubbing my fingers and wondering how long, if ever, before they got really supple again, when it happened.

  A voice, very close to me, less than three yards away, I suppose, said quietly, "Do you often burgle houses to play the piano?"

  I screamed, or it would have been a scream if the sound had not been stifled into a gulp in my throat, and my hands fell on the keys, making a dreadful, frightened discord.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," I said breathlessly. "I didn't know anyone was here."

  There was a long silence, and then someone laughed, very softly. That was too much for me, I pushed back the stool with a clatter and made a dive for the garden. I had my hand on the latch when a light shot up from a reading lamp behind the piano, and I saw the speaker.

  He was sitting in a wing chair on the far side of the fireplace, hidden from me by the piano's tail. I never had seen anyone look either so ill or so forlorn. My alarm was swallowed up in concern for him, and I went slowly back into the room. He was quite young, older than I, but not a great deal. So much was obvious despite his weariness, which would have been alarming had he been ninety. He was desperately thin; his clothes hung on his bones as though they were on hangers. Yet it was a fine face, sensitive and intelligent, but very pale and tired.

  He smiled at me, and it transformed him. His wide mouth curled up mischievously, and his dark eyes danced, "Don't go," he said. "I liked it. Honestly. Even the scales. Do you touch the modern stuff?"

  I said I did not get on very well with the new French folk, and he nodded and went on talking music for some minutes. I got in another apology at last, but he waved it aside.

  "Please don't," he said. "Come when you like. I wish you'd sit down. I'm awfully sorry I can't get up, but it's one of my bad days."

  It was shocking to hear the old man's phrase coming from such a young one. I felt very sorry for him. "It was dreadful of me," I said. "I came creeping in on you, and you're obviously very ill. Is there anything I can do?"

  "I wish you could." His mouth twitched a little as if he were secretly amused. "However,
it's only temporary, they tell me, thank God."

  "But what happened? What is it?" I demanded. It was impossible to preserve any formality with him, and anyway, the situation had an unreal, dreamlike quality. I was so absurdly worried about him; he was not the sort of person ever to be ill.

  "It's called 'multiple neuritis,' since it seems to worry you." he said, "and in my case it was caused by my-er-by my being left out in the rain. No end of rain."

  "In the Far East?"

  "Yes. Bullet through the thigh, and then-well, I got quite amazingly wet."

  "How long before they got you to hospital?"

  "Two weeks."

  "Oh, dear," I ejaculated, and knew it was an idiotic thing to say.

  He laughed like a boy, but there was tremendous underlying bitterness there, and I knew I was on dangerous ground.

  "I'm so sorry," I said, and meant it.

  "My dear child, don't take it to heart." He was still faintly amused, but not annoyed. "It gets better some days, vanishes almost, and then returns in full force just when I'm celebrating. It's trying, but it won't last forever. The doctors swear that. Besides, I know it myself-I am progressing slowly. Cheer up, it's my funeral. You're a baby, aren't you? I thought you were older when I heard you playing. Now I see you're only a kid. You ought to go on with that music."

  "I'm twenty," I said.

  "Really? I shouldn't have thought it. One foot in the grave, eh? When did you first take up burglary?"

  "In youth," I said. "It was dreadful. I-"

  "Be quiet!" His dark eyes, which were blue, I saw suddenly, a very, very dark blue, were apologetic. "I won't have excuses. You came, although you may not know it, in direct answer to prayer. I was sitting here, aching in every bone and wishing to God someone would come and play to me."

  "Were you?"

  "Yes," he said, and took my hand and squeezed it. There was nothing of what Miss Budd would have called a liberty in that gesture; it was just grateful and friendly and rather sweet. "Sit down and talk," he suggested, and I obeyed him.