Wedding Bells for Beatrice. Бетти Нилс

re-doing her hair, listening to him strolling around the room, whistling softly. She reflected that he was the first man to be there; it had never entered her head to invite Tom or any of the young doctors who from time to time had asked her out, and she wondered now what on earth had possessed her to do so now. Not that she had invited him; he had come with her as though it were a perfectly natural thing to do. She frowned as she stuck pins into her coil of hair; he was altogether too much and she would tell him so—show him the door, politely, of course.

      He was sitting, his coat off, in one of the small easy-chairs by the fire, but he got up as she crossed the room, watching her. ‘That’s better. Supposing that you tell me what upset you then if you want to cry again you can do so in warmth and comfort before we go to supper.’

      ‘I have no intention of crying again, Doctor, nor do I want supper.’

      Her insides rumbled as she said it, giving the lie to her words. She might have saved her breath.

      He pulled forward a chair invitingly. ‘Did he jilt you or did you jilt him?’

      She found herself sitting opposite him. ‘Well, neither really,’ she began.

      ‘A quarrel? It will help to talk about it and since I am a complete stranger to you too you can say what you like, I’ll listen and forget about it.’

      She was taking leave of her senses of course, confiding in this man.

      ‘Well,’ she began, ‘it is all a bit of a muddle.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE professor was a splendid listener; Beatrice quite forgot that he was there once she had started. ‘It’s probably all my fault. Tom’s attractive and amusing and I suppose I was flattered and it got a kind of habit to go out with him when he asked me. I didn’t really notice how friendly we’d become. I took him home for a weekend …’

      She paused. ‘Mother and Father didn’t like him very much—oh, they didn’t say so, I just knew, and then lately he began to talk about buying a practice and making a name for himself, only he said he would need some backing and he began to talk about Father—he’s a GP, and not well known or anything, but he does know a lot of important medical men, and Tom discovered that Mother was an earl’s granddaughter.’ She paused to say wildly, ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this …’

      He said in a detached voice, ‘As I have already said, we’re more or less strangers, unlikely to be more than that. I’m just a face to talk to … go on!’

      ‘I—I was getting doubtful, I mean I wasn’t sure if I liked him as much as I thought I did, if you see what I mean, and then this evening he wanted me to go out with him; he was very persistent so I went. He took me to the Tower Thistle—it’s a hotel, not too far away.’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘He ate all but one of the sandwiches—he said that no doubt I had had a good square meal. I knew that I didn’t love him then—well, any girl would, wouldn’t she?’ She gave her companion a brief glance and found his face passive and impersonal. ‘Then he said it was time we thought about our future, that he would need financial backing to get a partnership and that Father would be a great help. He even suggested that he could use Mother’s name to give him a start; he actually described the notice of our engagement in the Telegraph. I told him that I didn’t want to marry him—he hadn’t actually asked me, just took me for granted—and then he just laughed.’ She sniffed and added in a furious voice, ‘I won’t be taken for granted.’

      ‘Certainly not,’ agreed the professor. ‘This—Tom—? seems to be a singularly thick-skinned man.’ His voice was as avuncular as his manner. ‘Do you see much of him during your working hours?’

      ‘Hardly ever. I’m here all day and he works on the medical wards, but he telephones and I have to answer in case it’s one of the profs, wanting hot milk or sandwiches.’

      ‘Hot milk?’ The professor looked taken aback.

      ‘Well, some of them are getting on a bit and they forget to go to meals or go home when they’re supposed to. I suppose professors are all the same, a bit absentminded …’

      She gave him a startled look. ‘You’re a professor, you must be if you’re coming to the seminar tomorrow.’

      ‘Well, yes, I am, but I must assure you at once that I am unlikely to need hot milk. Which reminds me, we still have to have supper.’

      ‘I don’t want …’ began Beatrice, saw the quizzical lift of his eyebrows and added quickly, ‘Thank you, that would be nice—if it could be somewhere quiet? I’m not dressed for anywhere smart. Do you know London?’

      ‘I find my way around,’ admitted the professor modestly. ‘Get your coat and let us see what we can find.’

      When she came back ready to leave he had turned off the fire, left one lamp burning and had the door open. As they went down to the entrance the building was very quiet and, despite the heating, chilly. It was even colder outside and he took her arm and hurried her round to the corner of the forecourt where he had parked his car.

      ‘You drove over?’ asked Beatrice, silently admiring the understated luxury of the big Bentley as she was ushered into it.

      He got in beside her and drove out of the forecourt with the minimum of fuss. ‘I have several other hospitals to visit while I’m here. It saves time if I have the car.’

      She sat quietly, realising almost at once that he knew London well, not hesitating at all until he stopped in Camden Passage, got out and opened her door, locked it, put money in the parking meter and led her across the pavement to the restaurant. She had heard of it—Frederick’s—but she had never been there and she hung back a little, wondering if she was wearing the right clothes.

      ‘Now don’t start fussing,’ begged the professor, just as though she had voiced her doubts. ‘You’re perfectly adequately dressed,’ he added as a concession to her uncertainty. ‘You look very nice.’

      A remark her brother George might have made, and one hardly adequate; she dressed well, knowing what suited her and that she could afford to buy it—the tweed coat and woolly cap were suitable for a quick drink on a cold winter’s night but not what she would have chosen for a late dinner in a restaurant.

      She was propelled with gentle remorselessness through the entrance. ‘You can leave your coat there,’ said the professor, and bade the doorman good evening.

      When she joined him, reassured by her reflection in the cloakroom’s mirrors, he was talking to the maître d’ who, as she reached them, led them to a table by a window, paused to recommend the pheasant, which he said was excellent, wished them an enjoyable meal and gave way to a waiter.

      ‘You like pheasant?’ asked the professor. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer something else.’

      She studied the menu and suddenly felt famished. ‘I’d like the pheasant, please …’

      ‘The lobster mousse is delicious—shall we start with that?’

      She would have started with a hunk of bread, lunch having been a sketchy affair of soup and a roll and her solitary beef sandwich already long forgotten.

      She ate the mousse with pleasure. It was amazing what good food did to restore one’s good spirits; by the time they had disposed of the pheasant and she was deciding on a sweet she had quite recovered and was once more the level-headed supervisor, making polite conversation over the dinner-table. All the same during a pause in the talk she caught her companion’s eye resting thoughtfully upon her face and said impulsively, ‘I’m sorry I made a fool of myself this evening. So very stupid of me.’

      The professor smiled. The smile held mockery. ‘Dear, oh, dear! Here we go again back to square one, about to discuss the weather, unless I am much mistaken, and I was beginning to