Part 35 (1/2)

' Sarre had been right, Irene was mouse like; small and dainty with a

face that just failed to be pretty and soft brown hair, she was also desperately shy.

Alethea set herself the task of making her feel at home and succeeded

so well that by the time they sat down to table Irene was quite

enjoying herself.

Alethea, watching Wien and, decided that he really was in love this time, and with someone who would suit him very well.

Irene might be shy, but she had a lovely smile and a charming voice and she dressed well.

The evening pa.s.sed off very well and when their visitors had gone, Alethea said in a satisfied voice: ”He's really in love with her, isn't he--and she's a dear.

' ”Matchmaking, Alethea?

' Sarre sounded amused.

”No, it's just nice to see two people so happy.

' She looked away, thinking of Nick.

”You still think of him, Alethea?

' Sarre's voice was as placid as usual.

”Not often.

' She smiled at him.

”T think I'll go up to bed, I've a lot to do tomorrow before we go.

' She wished him goodnight and went to her room, and only when she was

on the point of getting into bed did she remember that she had promised Jacomina that she would ask her father if he would drop her off at school in the morning because her bike needed repairing.

She slipped into her dressing gown and pattered downstairs; she hadn't

heard him come up to bed, he would be in his study still.

She made no sound, although the old house creaked and sighed all around her and the tick took of the great Friesian clock in the hall dripped with soft deliberation into the silence.

She gained the hall and slipped down its length to where she could see

the study door, half open.

The powerful reading lamp on Sarre's desk was on, s.h.i.+ning on to his head and face, and she paused to look at him.

He looked bone weary, every line of his face highlighted.

He looked sad, too, and the sudden surge of feeling which gripped her was so strong that she stopped dead in her tracks.

It was with the greatest difficulty that she prevented herself from

rus.h.i.+ng madly to him and throwing her arms round him and begging him not to look like that.

It was more than she could bear, she told herself, and how could she

ever have thought that she was in love with Nick when all the time it was Sarre she loved?

She stood, staring her fill at him, sitting there, unconscious of her peering at him from the darkened hall until presently, unable to trust herself to speak to him about something so mundane as a bicycle, she turned and crept back to her room where she climbed into her enormous bed, to sit up against her pillows and think what to do.

Why, for a start, did Sarre look so dreadfully unhappy?

Had something gone wrong at the hospital?

Was he worried about a patient?

Was he thinking about Anna?

She s.h.i.+ed away from the idea, but it persisted, thrusting itself into the forefront of her thoughts, so that presently that was all she was thinking about.