Kitabı oku: «The Secret Pool», sayfa 2

There was a day left before she was to go on holiday; it was fully taken up with handing over to Jenny and, when she went off duty that evening, packing.

Her head stuffed with sound advice from her aunts, just as though she were on her way to darkest Africa, she took the early morning bus to Bristol where she caught a train to London, got on the underground to Heathrow and presented herself at the weighing-in counter with half an hour to spare. There was time for a cup of coffee before her flight was called and she sat drinking it and looking around her. A small, neat girl, wearing a short-sleeved cotton dress, sparkling fresh, high-heeled sandals, and carrying a sensible shoulder bag. She attracted quite a few appreciative glances from passers-by, together with their opinion that she was the kind of traveller who arrived looking as band-box fresh as when she had set out.

They were right; she arrived at Schiphol without a hair out of place, to be met by Karel and driven to Bloemendaal, a charming suburb of Haarlem where he and Clare had a flat. It wasn’t a lengthy trip but they had plenty to talk about: the baby, of course, his job—he was an accountant in one of the big bulb growers’ offices—Clare’s cleverness in learning Dutch, the pleasant life they led…

The flat was in a leafy road, quiet and pleasant, within walking distance of the dunes and woods. They lived on the third floor and Clare was waiting at their door as the lift stopped. She was a pretty girl, a little older than Fran, and she flung her arms round her now, delighted to see her. The pair of them led her into the flat, both talking at once, sitting her down between them in the comfortable living room, plying her with questions. After the aunts’ staid and sober conversation, they were a delight to Fran.

Presently Clare bore her off to her room where she unpacked and tidied herself and then joined them for tea and a lively discussion as to how she might best enjoy herself.

‘Swimming of course,’ declared Clare, ‘if the weather holds.’ She poured more tea. ‘I rest in the afternoons, so you can poke around Haarlem if you want to. There is heaps to see if you like churches and museums. Then there is Linnaeushof Gardens and the open air theatre here and the aviary… Two weeks won’t be enough.’

‘You are dears to have me,’ said Fran. ‘It’s lovely to—to…’

‘Escape?’ suggested Clare.

Fran, feeling guilty, said yes.

It was a delightful change after life in the hospital; Karel went early to work and she and Clare breakfasted at their leisure, tidied the flat and then took a bus into Haarlem or did a little shopping at the local shops; and after lunch, Clare curled up with a book and Fran took herself off, walking in the dunes, going into Haarlem, exploring its streets, poking her nose into its many churches, visiting its museums, and window shopping.

It was on the fourth day of her visit when she went back to St Bavo’s Cathedral. She had already paid it a brief visit with Clare on one of their morning outings but Clare hadn’t much use for old churches. It was a brilliant afternoon so that the vast interior seemed bathed in twilight and she pottered happily, straining to see the model ships hanging from its lofty rafters, trying to understand the ornate memorial stones on its walls and finally standing before the organ, a vast affair with its three keyboards and its five thousand pipes. Her mind boggled at anyone attempting to play it and, as if in answer to that, music suddenly flooded from it so that she sat down to listen, enthralled. It was something grand and stirring and yet sad and solemn; she had heard it before but the composer eluded her. She closed her eyes the better to hear and became aware that someone had come to sit beside her.

‘Fauré,’ said Dr van Rijgen. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it? He is practising for the International Organists’ Contest.’

Fran’s eyes had flown open. ‘However did you get here?’ And then, absurdly, ‘Good afternoon, Dr van Rijgen. I was trying to remember the composer—the organist is playing like a man inspired.’

She studied his face for a moment; somehow he seemed quite friendly. ‘Do you live here?’

‘Utrecht.’

‘But that’s the other side of Amsterdam…’

‘Thirty-eight miles from here. Less than that; I don’t need to go to Amsterdam, there is a road south…’

She was aware that the music had become quiet and sad. ‘You have patients here?’

‘What a girl you are for asking questions. I came to see if you were enjoying your holiday.’

She goggled at him. ‘Whatever for? And how did you know where I was staying, anyway?’

He smiled slowly. ‘Oh, ways and means. Your cousin told me you would most probably be here. She most kindly invited me back for tea. I’ll drive you, but there’s time enough. Shall we wait till the end? The best part, I always think.’

Fran opened her mouth and then closed it again. What was there to say in the face of such arrogance, short of telling him to go away, not easily done in church, somehow? But why had he deliberately come looking for her? She sat and pondered the question while the organ thundered and swelled into a crescendo of sound and faded away to a kind of sad triumph.

Dr van Rijgen stirred. ‘Magnificent. Do you like our Grote Kirk?’

‘It’s breathtaking; I didn’t know it was so old…all those years building it. I must get a book about it.’

‘I have several at home; you must borrow one.’

Fran stood up and he stood up with her, which put her at an instant disadvantage for she had to look up to his face. ‘You want something, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘I mean,’ she hesitated and blushed. ‘You don’t—you aren’t interested in me as—as a person, are you?’

‘That, Francesca, is where you are mistaken. I should add that I have not fallen in love with you or any such foolishness, but as a person, yes, I am interested in you.’

‘Why?’

She spoke softly because there were people milling all round them now.

‘At the proper time I will tell you. Now, if you are ready, shall we go back to your cousin?’

She went ahead of him, down the length of the vast church, her mind in a fine muddle. But I don’t even like him, she reminded herself, and then frowned quite fiercely. Once or twice during their strange talk, she had liked him very much.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE paused outside the great entrance to the church and he touched her arm. ‘Over here, Francesca,’ he said and led her to a silver grey Daimler parked at the side. On the short drive to Clare’s flat he made casual conversation which gave Fran no chance to ask questions and once there she saw that she was going to have even less opportunity. Apparently whatever it was he wanted of her would be made clear in his own good time and not before. And since she had no intention of seeing him again while she was in Holland, he would presently get the surprise he deserved.

Her satisfaction was short-lived. She was astounded to hear him calmly telling Clare that he felt sure that she would like to see something of Holland while she was there, and would Clare mind if he came on the following day and took her guest for a run through the more rural parts of the country?

She was still struggling for words when she heard Clare’s enthusiastic, ‘What a marvellous idea! She’ll love it, won’t she, Karel?’

Just as though I’m not here, fumed Fran silently, and got as far as, ‘But I don’t…’

‘Oh, don’t mind leaving Clare for a day,’ said Karel. ‘I shall be taking her to the clinic tomorrow anyway—you go off and have fun.’ He gave her a kindly smile and Fran almost choked on the idea of having fun with Dr van Rijgen. Whatever it was he wanted of her would have nothing to do with fun. She amended the thought; perhaps not fun, but interesting? All the same, such high-handed behaviour wouldn’t do at all. She waited until there was a pause in the conversation. ‘I had planned to visit one or two places,’ she said clearly and was stopped by Dr van Rijgen.

‘Perhaps another day for those?’ he suggested pleasantly. ‘It would give me great pleasure to show you some small part of my country, Francesca.’

There was nothing to say in the face of that bland politeness. She agreed to go, the good manners the aunts had instilled into her from an early age standing her in good stead.

He left shortly after with the suggestion that he might call for her soon after nine o’clock the next morning.

‘Don’t you like him?’ asked Clare the moment the sound of his car had died away.

‘Well,’ observed Fran matter-of-factly, ‘I don’t really know him, do I? He gave us lectures when I was training and he’s given me instructions about patients on the wards… He was absolutely beastly to me when I was a student and I dozed off during one of his lectures. I think he laughs at me.’

Clare shot her a quick look, exchanged a lightning glance with Karel and said comfortably, ‘Oh, well, I should think he’s forgotten about that by now—or perhaps he is making amends.’

A fair girl, Fran said, ‘I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, you know—I expect it injured his ego.’

Clare gave a little chortle of laughter. ‘You know, love, once you’ve got to know each other, I think you and Dr van Rijgen might have quite a lot in common. He’s very well known over here; did you know that?’

‘No. He comes to Bristol to lecture on tropical diseases, that’s all I know about him.’

‘Well, he goes to London and Edinburgh and Birmingham and Vienna and Brussels—you name it and he has been there. A very clever laddie.’

Fran had turned her head to look out of the window; Fran was a dear and Clare studied her… She was a thought old-fashioned but that was the aunts’ fault, and save for her lovely eyes she had no looks to speak of. But, her hair was fine and long, and her figure was good, if a trifle plump. Clare, with all the enthusiasm of the newly wed, scented romance.

There was no romance apparent the following morning. Dr van Rijgen arrived exactly when he said he would, spent five minutes or so charming Clare—there was no other word for it, thought Fran indignantly—and then led the way to his car.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Fran and, when he didn’t answer at once, ‘where are you taking me?’

He was driving south, through the country roads criss-crossing the duinen so that he might avoid Haarlem, and there was very little traffic about. He pulled in to the side of the road and turned to look at her. ‘Shall we clear the air, Francesca? You sound like the heroine in a romantic thriller. I’m not taking you anywhere, not in the sense that you imply. We shall drive across country, avoiding the motorways so that you may be able to see some of the more rural parts of Holland, and then we shall go to my home because I should like you to meet someone there.’

‘Your wife,’ said Fran instantly.

‘My wife is dead.’ He started up the car once more. ‘On our right you can just get a glimpse of Heemstede, a suburb of Haarlem and very pleasant. And down the road is Vogelenzang, a quite charming stretch of wooded dunes; we must go there one day to hear the birds…’

Fran turned her head away and pretended to take an interest in the scenery; she had been snubbed, there were no two ways about that. If these terms were to continue all day then she began to wish most heartily that she had never come; she hadn’t wanted to in the first place. She voiced her thoughts out loud.

‘No, that was only too obvious, but it was rather difficult for you to refuse, wasn’t it?’

‘I cannot think,’ said Fran crossly, ‘why you are bothering to waste your time with me.’

‘I dare say not, but now is not the time to explain. And now, if you could forget your dislike of me for an hour or two, I will tell you where we are going. This road takes us the long way round to Aalsmeer. We shall go through Hillegom very shortly and take a secondary road to the shores of Aalsmeer which will take us to the town itself; there we shall drive down its other shore and take country roads, some of them narrow and brick, to Nieuwkoop. We have to drive right round the northern end of the lake and pick up the road which eventually brings us to the motorway into Utrecht. My home is on the far side of the city in the woods outside Zeist. We will stop for coffee at one of the cafés along the Aalsmeer.’

‘It sounds a long way,’ observed Fran.

‘No distance as the crow flies, and not much further by car. We shall lunch at my home.’

She gave him a sideways glance. His profile looked stern; he couldn’t possibly be enjoying himself so why had he asked her out? He turned his head before she could look away. His smile took years off his face. ‘I haven’t had a day out for a long time—shall we forget hospital wards and night duty and lectures by disagreeable doctors and enjoy ourselves?’

His smile was so warm and friendly that she smiled back. ‘Oh, I’d like that—and it’s such a lovely day.’

His hand came down briefly on hers clasped in her lap. ‘It’s a pact. Here we are at Aalsmeer. I’ll explain about the flowers…’

They stopped for coffee presently, sitting down by the water’s edge while he drew a map of the surrounding countryside on the tablecloth. ‘There are motorways coming into Utrecht from each point of the compass. We shall join one to the south, going round the city, and then turn off towards Leusderheide—that’s heathland…’

‘You live there?’

‘No, but very near. It’s only a short run from here.’

They got back into the car and drove on through the quiet countryside with only the farms and small villages studded around the flat green fields. But not for long. They joined the motorway very soon and presently the outskirts of Utrecht loomed ahead and then to one side of them as they swept past the outskirts. Dr van Rijgen drove fast with an ease which was almost nonchalance, slipping past the traffic with nothing more than a gentle swish of sound, and once past Utrecht and with Zeist receding in the distance he left the motorway and slowed his speed. They were on a country road now, with Zeist still visible to one side, and on the other pleasantly wooded country, peaceful after the rush of the motorway.

‘We could be miles from anywhere,’ marvelled Fran.

‘Yes, and I need only drive a couple of miles to join the road into Zeist and Utrecht.’

‘And the other way?’

‘Ede, Appeldoorn, the Veluwe; all beautiful.’

‘You go there often, to the—the Veluwe?’

He didn’t allow himself to smile at her pronunciation of the word.

‘Most weekends when I am free.’

It was like wringing blood from a stone, she reflected, wringing bits and pieces of information from him, word by word. She gave a small soundless sigh and looked out of the window.

They were passing through a small scattered village: tiny cottages, a very large church and a number of charming villas.

‘This looks nice,’ she observed.

‘I think so, too,’ said Dr van Rijgen and swept the car with an unexpected rush through brick pillars and along a leafy drive. Fran, suddenly uneasy, sat up, the better to see around her, just in time to glimpse the house as they went round a curve.

It was flat-faced and solid with a gabled roof and large windows arranged in rows across its front; they got smaller and higher as they went up and they all had shutters. The front door was atop semi-circular steps, a solid wooden affair with ornate carving around its fanlight and a tremendous knocker.

Fran didn’t look at the doctor. ‘You live here?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned over her and undid her door and her safety belt and then got out himself and went round the bonnet so that he was standing waiting for her as she got out, too. She said quite sharply, ‘I wish you would tell me why you’ve brought me here.’

‘Why, to meet my small daughter. She’s looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Your daughter? I had no idea…’

He said coolly, ‘Why should you have? Shall we go in?’

The door had been opened; a very thin, stooping, elderly man was standing by it. ‘Tuggs,’ said the doctor, ‘this is Miss Manning, come to have lunch with us. Francesca, Tuggs has been with us for very many years; he runs the place with his wife, Nel. He is English, by the way.’

Fran paused at the top of the steps and offered a hand. ‘How do you do, Tuggs,’ and smiled her gentle smile before she was ushered indoors.

It was a square entrance hall with splendid pillars supporting a gallery above it and with a fine staircase at its end. Fran had the impression of marble underfoot, fine silky carpets, a great many portraits, and sunlight streaming through a circular window above the staircase, before she was urged to enter a room at the back of the hall. She paused in the doorway and looked up at her host. ‘I’m a bit overwhelmed—it’s so very grand.’

He considered this remark quite seriously. ‘One’s own home is never grand, and it is home. Don’t be scared of it, Francesca.’ He shut the door behind them. ‘Nel will bring coffee in a few moments and you can go and tidy yourself—she’ll show you where. But first come and see Lisa.’

They were in a quite small cosy room with chintz curtains at the windows and a wide view out to a garden filled with flowers. The furniture was old, polished and comfortable, and sitting by the open window was a buxom young woman with a rosy face, reading to a little girl perched in a wheelchair.

The young woman, looking up, saw them, put down her book and said something to the child who turned her head and shrilled, ‘Papa!’ and then burst into a torrent of Dutch.

She was a beautiful child, with golden curls, enormous blue eyes and a glorious smile. Dr van Rijgen bent to kiss her and then lifted her carefully into his arms. He said something to the nurse and she smiled and went out of the room and he said,

‘This is Lisa, six years old and as I frequently tell her the most beautiful girl in the world.’

Fran took a small thin hand in hers. ‘Oh, she is, the darling.’ She beamed at the little girl, careful not to look at the fragile little body in the doctor’s arms. ‘Hullo, Lisa.’

The child put up her face to be kissed and broke into a long excited speech until the doctor hushed her gently. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment,’ he suggested and glanced up as a stout woman came in with a tray. ‘Here’s Nel with the coffee.’ He said something to her and turned to Fran.

‘This is my housekeeper; no English worth mentioning, I’m afraid, but a most sensible and kind woman; we’d be lost without her.’ He spoke to her again—she was being introduced in her turn, Fran guessed—and then got up as he said, ‘Nel will show you where you can tidy yourself.’

The cloakroom into which Fran was ushered, tucked away down a short passage leading from the hall, was so unlike the utilitarian cubbyhole in her aunts’ house that she paused to take a good look. Powder blue tiles, silver grey carpet, an enormous mirror and a shelf containing just about everything a woman might need to repair the ravages upon her make-up. Fran sniffed appreciatively at the bottles of eau-de-toilette, washed her hands with pale blue soap and felt apologetic about using one of the stack of towels. She dabbed powder on her nose in a perfunctory manner, combed her hair and went back across the hall.

Father and daughter looked at her as she went in and she had the strong impression that they had been talking about her—naturally enough, she supposed; and when asked to pour out she did so in her usual unflurried manner.

Lisa had milk in her own special mug and sugar biscuits on a matching plate but they were largely ignored. She was a happy child, chuckling a great deal at her father’s soft remarks, meticulously translated for Fran’s benefit.

A very sick child, too, the charming little face far too pale, the small body thin above the sticks of useless legs. But there was no hint of despair or sadness; the doctor drew her into the talk, making a great thing of translating for her and urging her to try out a few Dutch words for herself, something which sent Lisa into paroxysms of mirth. Presently she demanded to sit on Fran’s lap, where she sat, Fran’s firm arm holding her gently, examining her face and hair, chattering non-stop.

They were giggling comfortably together when the young woman came back and Dr van Rijgen said, ‘This is Nanny. She has been with us for almost six years and is quite irreplaceable. She speaks little English. Lisa goes for a short rest now before lunch.’

Fran said, ‘How do you do, Nanny,’ feeling doubtful that such an old and tried member of the family might look upon her with jealousy. It was a relief to see nothing but friendliness in the other girl’s face and, what was more puzzling, a kind of excited expectancy.

Alone with her host, Fran sat back and asked composedly, ‘Will you tell me about Lisa? It’s not spina bifida—she’s paralysed isn’t she, the poor darling? Is it a meningocele?’

He sounded as though he was delivering a lecture on the ward. ‘Worse than that—a myelomeningocele, paralysis, club feet and a slight hydrocephalus.’ His voice was expressionless as he added, ‘Everything that could be done, has been done; she has at the most six more months.’

The words sounded cold; she studied his face and saw what an effort it was for him to speak calmly. She said quietly, ‘She is such a happy child and you love her. She would be easy to love…’

‘I would do anything in the world to keep her happy.’ He got up and walked over to the French window at the end of the room and opened it and two dogs came in: a mastiff and a roly-poly of a dog, very low on the ground with a long curly coat and bushy eyebrows almost hiding liquid brown eyes.

‘Meet Thor and Muff—Thor’s very mild unless he’s been put on guard, but Muff seems to think that he must protect everyone living here.’

He wasn’t going to say any more about Lisa. Fran asked, ‘Why Muff?’

‘He looks like one, don’t you think?’ He bent to tweak the dog’s ears. ‘Would you like to see the gardens? Lisa spends a good deal of time out here when the weather’s fine.’

There was a wide lawn beyond the house bordered by flower beds and trees. They wandered on for a few minutes in silence, with the doctor, the perfect host, pointing out this and that and the other thing which might interest her. But presently he began to ask her casual questions about her work, her home and her plans.

‘I haven’t any,’ said Fran cheerfully. ‘I would have liked to have stayed on at the Infirmary; at least I’d have had the chance to carve myself a career, but the aunts needed me at home.’

‘They are invalids?’

‘Heavens no, nothing like that. They—they just feel that—that…’

‘You should be at their beck and call,’ he finished for her smoothly.

‘Oh, you mustn’t say that. They gave me a home and I’m very grateful.’

‘To the extent of turning your back on your own future? Have you no plans to marry?’

‘None at all,’ she told him steadily.

He didn’t ask any more questions after that, but turned back towards the house, offering a glass of sherry while they waited for Lisa to join them for lunch.

She sat between them, eating with the appetite of a bird, talking non-stop, and Fran, because it amused the child, tried out a few Dutch words again. Presently they went into the garden once more, pushing the wheelchair, Fran naming everything in sight in English at Lisa’s insistence.

They had tea under an old mulberry tree in the corner of the garden and when Nanny came to take her away, Lisa demanded with a charm not to be gainsaid, ‘Fran is to come again, Papa—tomorrow?’

He was lying propped up against the tree, watching her. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘We might take Lisa to the sea—the sand’s firm enough for the chair.’

‘If she would like me to come, then I will—I’d like to very much.’

She was quite unprepared for the joy on the child’s face as her father told her. Two thin arms were wrapped round her neck and she was kissed heartily. In between kisses she said something to her father and squealed with delight at his reply. Fran looked from one to the other of them, sensing a secret, probably about herself. She certainly wasn’t going to ask, she told herself, and wished Nanny goodbye, encountering that same look of pleased anticipation. It was time she went home, she decided and was instantly and blandly talked out of it.

They dined in a leisurely fashion in a room furnished with an elegant Regency-style oval table and ribbon-backed chairs and a vast side table laden with heavy silver. Fran was surprised to find her companion easy to talk to and the conversation was light and touched only upon general topics. Lisa wasn’t mentioned and although she longed to ask more about the child, she was given no opportunity to pose any questions.

She was driven back to Clare’s flat, her companion maintaining a pleasant flow of small talk which gave away nothing of himself. And at the flat, although he accepted her invitation to go in with her, he stayed only a short time before bidding them all good night and reiterating that he would call for her at ten o’clock in the morning.

Clare pounced on her the moment he had gone. ‘Fran—you dark horse—did you know he’d be here? Did he follow you over to Holland?’

Fran started to collect the coffee cups. ‘Nothing like that, love, we don’t even like each other. He has a small daughter who is very ill; I think he has decided that it might amuse her to have a visitor. We got on rather well together, so I suppose that’s why he’s asked me to go out with them tomorrow.’

‘His wife?’ breathed Clare, all agog.

‘He is a widower.’

‘And you don’t like each other?’

‘Not really. He’s devoted to Lisa, though, and she liked me. I like her, too. You won’t mind if I’m away tomorrow?’

Her cousin grinned. ‘You have fun while you’ve got the chance.’

The weather was being kind; Fran awakened to a blue sky and warm sunshine. She was ready and waiting when Dr van Rijgen and Lisa arrived. She got in beside Lisa’s specially padded seat in the back of the car and listened, only half understanding, to the child’s happy chatter.

It was a successful day, she had to admit to herself as she got ready for bed that evening. They had gone to Noordwijk aan Zee, parked the car and carried Lisa and her folded chair down to the water’s edge where the sand was smooth and firm. They had walked miles, with the shore stretching ahead of them for more miles, and then stopped off for crusty rolls and hard-boiled eggs. They had talked and laughed a lot and little Lisa had been happy, her pale face quite rosy; and as for the doctor, Fran found herself almost liking him. It was a pity, she reflected, jumping into bed, that he would be at the hospital at Utrecht for all of the following day; it was even more of a pity that he hadn’t so much as hinted at seeing her again. ‘Not that I care in the least,’ she told herself. ‘When Lisa isn’t there he is a very unpleasant man.’ Upon which somewhat arbitrary thought she went to sleep.

She spent the next morning quietly with Clare and Karel, and took herself for a walk in the afternoon. Another week, and her holiday would be over. She hadn’t mentioned Dr van Rijgen in her letters to the aunts and upon reflection she decided not to say anything about him. She thought a great deal about little Lisa, too; a darling child and happy; she had quite believed the doctor when he had said that he would do anything to keep her so. She went back to the flat, volunteered to cook the supper while Clare worried away at some knitting and went to bed early, declaring that she was tired.

Karel had gone to work and she was giving Clare the treat of breakfast in bed when the doctor telephoned. He would be at the hospital all the morning, he informed her in a cool voice, but he hoped that she would be kind enough to spend the afternoon with Lisa. ‘I’ll call for you about half past one,’ he told her and rang off before she could say a word.

‘Such arrogance,’ said Fran crossly. ‘Anyone would think I was here just for his convenience.’

All the same, she was ready, composed and a little cool in her manner when he arrived. A waste of effort on her part for he didn’t seem to notice her stand-offish manner. To her polite enquiries as to his morning, he had little to say, but launched into casual questions. When was she returning home? What did she think of Holland? Did she find the language difficult to understand? And then, harshly, did she feel at her ease with Lisa?

Fran turned to look at him in astonishment. ‘At ease? Why ever shouldn’t I? She’s a darling child and the greatest fun to be with. I like children.’ She sounded so indignant that he said instantly, ‘I’m sorry, I put that badly.’ He turned the car into the drive. ‘A picnic tea, don’t you think? It’s such a lovely day.’ And, as she got out of the car, ‘It would be nice, if you are free tomorrow, if you will come with us to the Veluwe—it’s charming, rather like your New Forest, and Lisa sees fairies behind every tree. We’ll fetch you about half past ten?’

‘I haven’t said I’ll come,’ observed Fran frostily, half in and half out of the car.

‘Lisa wants you.’

And that’s the kind of left-handed compliment a girl likes having, thought Fran, marching ahead of him up the steps, her ordinary nose in the air.

But she forgot all that when Lisa joined them; in no time at all, she was laughing as happily as the little girl, struggling with the Dutch Lisa insisted upon her trying out. They had tea on the lawn again and when Nanny came to fetch Lisa to bed, Fran went, too, invited by both Nanny and the child.

Being got ready for bed was a protracted business dealt with by Nanny with enviable competence. But it was fun, too. Fran fetched and carried and had a satisfactory conversation with Nanny even though they both spoke their own language for the most part. They sat on each side of Lisa while she ate her supper and then at last was carried to her small bed in the charming nursery. Here Fran kissed her good night and went back to the day nursery, because it was Nanny’s right to tuck her little charge up in bed and give her a final hug. She had just joined Fran when the doctor came in, said something to Nanny and went through to the night nursery where there was presently a good deal of giggling and murmuring before he came back.