A Star Looks Down. Betty Neels

was stiff, but once she had shut the door on his broad back, she whisked to William’s bedroom window which overlooked the street, and looked cautiously out, in time to see him getting into the Citroën. She craned her neck in order to get a better view; he must be very successful if he could afford to run a car costing almost seven thousand pounds, even though it matched his size. It was disconcerting when he looked up and caught her peering down, and waved.

      Beth got up early on Friday morning, gave William his breakfast and a list of instructions which she knew very well he wouldn’t attend to, and set about cleaning the flat. William, though willing, was unhandy about the house and it would probably be in a shocking state when she got back, but at least she could leave it in apple pie order. She sighed as she Hoovered; a holiday—a real holiday—would have been super, but she cheered herself up with the promise of the shopping expedition she would have—a new suit, she decided happily while she packed a few things in a case; the despised skirt and sweater, a suede jerkin to wear over them if the days proved cool, a raincoat and a jersey dress; the only decent one she had, leaf green and simple enough for it not to matter that it was a year old at least, slacks, she supposed, and a shirt-blouse. She would wear her suit, a bargain in the January sales, Irish tweed and well cut, and she had her good leather shoes and handbag. She dressed quickly, did her face and hair, picked up her case and went downstairs to telephone for a taxi; it wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where one was easily to be found.

      The address which the professor had given her was just off Sloane Square; a quiet cul-de-sac reached by a narrow street and lined on three sides by tall elegant houses. There was an enclosed garden in its centre and it had all the peace of a country village. Very Knightsbridge, thought Beth, paying the driver before picking up her case and ascending the steps of number three.

      The door was opened before she could ring the bell. A small, cheerful-faced woman wished her good day and without asking her what her business was, stood aside for her to go in. ‘You’ll be Miss Partridge,’ she declared comfortably, ‘the professor said you’d be arriving about now. If you’ll put your case down someone will bring it to your room presently, miss. I thought you might like to go there straight away and then have a cup of tea. The children are in the park with Nelly, who comes in to help most days; that’ll give you time to look around you. This way, if you please.’

      She led the way down the narrow elegant hall to the staircase, curving up from its end wall. Half-way up she paused to get her breath, for she was on the stout side. ‘Your room’s on the second floor, with the children, miss; the professor thought it might be nicer for you as well as easier.’ She beamed kindly at Beth, who smiled back, liking her, before they went on again, across a surprisingly wide landing and up another flight of stairs opening on to a semicircle of thick carpet, lighted by a big bow window and with several doors leading from it. The housekeeper opened the first of these, disclosing a good sized room, furnished tastefully with Regency mahogany and curtained and carpeted in a delicate shade of blue.

      ‘Oh, charming!’ exclaimed Beth, quite carried away with the idea of having it for her own for a week; it reminded her of her room at Chifney’s, only there were no fields to be seen from its window, only the treetops from the little square in front of the house. She turned to smile again at her companion. ‘You must be the housekeeper—may I know your name?’

      ‘Mrs Silver, miss. I’ve been housekeeper here for many years now, ever since the professor inherited this house from his grandfather—that was his mother’s father, her being English. He’s not here all that often, not having the time, being such a busy gentleman.’

      She turned round as a thin youngish woman appeared in the doorway with Beth’s case. ‘And this is Miss Powers; she comes in daily to help and what a blessing that is, I can tell you.’ She nodded and smiled and went on: ‘And now we’ll leave you to unpack your things, then perhaps you’ll come downstairs when you’re ready, there’ll be a nice tea ready for you. Would ten minutes suit you, miss?’

      Beth thanked her and fell to unpacking, a task quickly accomplished so that she had time to tidy her hair and re-do her face and take a closer look at the room. It was really quite beautiful; the professor’s grandfather must have been a man of excellent taste. She looked around her as she made her way downstairs too, and found the same elegance, and promised herself a closer inspection of the pictures hanging on the walls when she had the leisure—if she had any leisure; the professor had warned her that she would have her hands full.

      Mrs Silver appeared in the hall as Beth trod the last stair and led the way across the hall and opened a door, inviting her to enter, adding that tea would be brought in a very few minutes. Beth murmured her thanks, wishing to ask if there really was time for her to have tea before the children arrived, but Mrs Silver had already gone, closing the door silently behind her, leaving Beth to look around her.

      It was a large, comfortably furnished room, two button-backed sofas flanked the marble fireplace, and there were a variety of easy chairs scattered about, as well as a Sheraton sofa table, a number of lamp tables and a handsome display cabinet against one wall. There were pictures on its panelled walls, too; she began a leisurely tour of them, craning her neck to see those above her head and retracing her steps to take another look at something she had liked. She had reached the fireplace by now and tiptoed to study the portrait above it—bewhiskered old gentleman, smiling a little, with heavy-lidded blue eyes.

      ‘That’ll be Grandfather,’ Beth told herself aloud. ‘He looks an old poppet—he’s got the same eyes too.’ She turned with a smothered shriek at the chuckle behind her. Deep in the recesses of a porter’s chair, half turned away from the room, sat the professor, watching her.

      ‘You’re quite right,’ he observed blandly, ‘we do share the same eyes and he was—what was the word?—an old poppet.’ He got up as he spoke and came towards her. ‘Unpardonable of me to remain silent, was it not? But if you had turned this way you would have seen me.’

      ‘Yes—well I didn’t expect you to be here.’ She was a little indignant.

      ‘I didn’t expect to be here either, but the last case fell through and it occurred to me that it might be easier for you if I were here to introduce you and the children.’ His kind smile came and went. ‘Do sit down, Miss Partridge. Mrs Silver will be here at any moment with tea—I seldom have the chance to have it at home, and still less to share it with a such a delightful companion.’

      Beth frowned horribly, aware that she had gone a bright pink, and he asked in a matter-of-fact way: ‘You do not care for compliments? I assure you that I meant what I said.’

      ‘Of course I like compliments,’ she spoke a trifle crossly, ‘all girls do, only I never quite believe them. You see, my face…you must have noticed I’m rather plain…’

      His heavy lids drooped still further over his eyes and if she had hoped, deep down, that he would disclaim this bald statement, she was to be disappointed, for all he said was: ‘I would have thought that it could be quite an asset in these days, when girls wear their prettiness like a uniform.’

      She shook her head. ‘Not for me, though I know what you mean, but there are some quite beautiful girls around.’

      ‘Ah, beauty is quite a different matter and there aren’t all that number, you know.’

      ‘There’s a very beautiful girl on the Surgical Block,’ Beth told him. ‘Maureen Brooks, you’re bound to see her while you’re at St Elmer’s—she’s super; black hair and…’

      ‘She lisps.’

      ‘Oh, you’ve met her already. Most people think a lisp’s rather nice.’

      He looked amused. ‘My dear Miss Partridge, has somebody told you that I am still a bachelor? I assure you that I am very content to be so, and although I am sure that you mean to be helpful, I’m quite able to find myself a wife should I wish for one.’

      She went scarlet and jumped out of the chair where she had perched herself. ‘You know very well that I didn’t mean anything of the sort,’ she declared indignantly. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t