Visiting Consultant. Betty Neels

wore the same kind of cap and apron she had worn when she had entered the surgeon’s service almost three decades earlier. She looked prim, but smiled warmly at Sophy, and said, as she always said each Sunday,

      ‘Just in time, Miss Sophy; Cook’s dishing up.’

      Sophy smiled too and enquired with interested sympathy about Matty’s bad leg while she took off her coat and gave it into her keeping. Left alone, she went over to the old-fashioned mirror hanging on one wall and peered into it. She looked at her face with some dissatisfaction, anchored her hair more securely, and ran a licked finger over the smooth arches of her brows.

      ‘Gilding the lily?’ enquired a voice; the Dutchman’s voice.

      Sophy jumped, and at the same time was deeply thankful that she was wearing a jersey shirtwaister that suited her admirably. She turned to face him as casually as she was able.

      ‘You shouldn’t take people by surprise like that,’ she said severely. ‘It’s bad for their nerves.’ Her voice was commendably steady, even though her pulse was not.

      He made no effort to move, so that she was forced to remain where she was, looking up at him. He looked her over slowly and said, ‘Very nice,’ and then, ‘Did you not expect me here?’ His blue eyes searched hers. ‘No, I see that you didn’t. Your Uncle Giles is my Uncle Giles too, you know.’

      Sophy tried to think of something to say; something clever or witty or charming; she was unable to think of anything at all, and, what was worse, she was only too aware that he knew it. She looked up to meet his quizzical gaze.

      ‘Your aunt sent me to fetch you,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you ready?’

      They crossed the hall in silence while Sophy turned over in her mind his remark about gilding the lily. He had been mocking her, of course; she had no illusions about her face.

      As he opened the door he said on a laugh, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘I do believe that no one has ever called you a lily before.’

      He flung the door wide, and she went in to greet the politely impatient people waiting for their luncheon.

      The table around which the company settled themselves was a large mahogany masterpiece, fashioned to accommodate a dozen persons at least. Sophy found herself beside Uncle Giles; Max van Oosterwelde was at the other end of the table next to Aunt Vera, with Penny on his other side. It was apparent that they were already the best of friends. She turned her head away and concentrated on her godfather, who was carving beef with a skill which was to have been expected of him.

      Sophy passed the plates, and asked, soft-voiced in the general hum of conversation, where he and her aunt were going for their holiday.

      ‘Dorset, my dear. Max has a nice little place tucked away down there—uses it when he comes to England. We’ve got the run of it for as long as we like. We shall leave here tomorrow. Later on, we hope to go over and stay with him in Holland, but that depends on how long I take to recoup and how long he can stay over here.’

      He saw her anxious look and said quickly, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. It’s nothing desperate—my heart’s overdoing it a bit, that’s all. Nothing a good rest won’t cure.’

      Sophy raised her eyes to his. ‘Is that the truth, Uncle Giles, or are you busy pulling wool over my eyes?’

      He laughed. ‘The truth, girl. I’ve never lied to you, and don’t intend to start now.’ He finished his carving and sat down and helped himself to the dishes Matty was holding.

      ‘Can I do anything to help you or Aunt Vera?’

      He shook his head. ‘No, my dear. At least, you might keep a motherly eye on Max.’

      Sophy choked on a morsel of beef. ‘A motherly eye on him?’ she asked faintly.

      ‘Yes. Though if you prefer it, I’ll ask him to keep a fatherly eye on you.’ He laughed so richly that everyone looked at him. He beamed at them all. ‘Sophy and I are enjoying a joke together.’ He winked broadly at her and turned to her grandmother, then left her to get on with her lunch.

      After lunch Aunt Vera and Grandmother Greenslade wandered off to the drawing room, for what they called their weekly chat, and Uncle Giles bore Max van Oosterwelde away to his study, saying over his shoulder that there were plenty of apples for the picking at the end of the garden. Penny and Benjamin needed no second bidding, and tore away, followed more sedately but Sophy. Ten minutes later, however, sedateness forgotten, she was sitting astride a convenient fork in a tree, with a basket half filled on her arm, and a half eaten apple in her hand. It was pleasant there; the autumn sun still had warmth; the apples smelled good. She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to be free preferably driving about the country in a shining Bentley. It was only a small step from thinking of the Bentley to its owner; that was why his voice, coming from beneath her, sent the ready colour pouring over her face.

      ‘Are these your shoes?’ he asked.

      Sophy curled her toes inside her stockings. ‘Yes. I was afraid I’d spoil them.’

      ‘Come down and put them on, and I’ll get the rest of the apples for you, shall I?’

      Penny and Benjamin had joined him, laden with their own spoils. She whisked down the old tree, intent on getting to the ground unaided. She should have known better. She was plucked from it while she was still some feet from the ground, and set lightly on her feet. Then he was gone, and a moment later, she saw him balanced on a sturdy branch, reaching above his head and throwing the apples down to them. He looked enormous, but somehow not in the least out of place. The apples safely stowed, they went back to the drawing room, where Uncle Giles had switched on the television. He was following the incredible activities of a cowboy, apparently holding off a mob of howling Indians single-handed. He took his eyes from the screen long enough to recommend them to sit down and watch too, and soon there was silence, broken only by the sounds of celluloid battle. The telephone brought a discordant note amongst the war cries. Uncle Giles frowned, and turned the sound down, and Sophy, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. It was Staff Nurse.

      ‘Sister, I thought you’d want to know that the internal injuries is coming up at five-thirty, but Cas rang through to say they’ve got an abdominal that might have to be done first. They’ve had a road accident in, and Mr Carruthers is there now.’

      Sophy looked at her watch; it was almost half past four. ‘Lay up for an abdominal, Cooper, and put in the general set and all we need for nephrectomy and splenectomy, and remember they’ll probably want to do an intravenous pyelogram.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And a few bladder tools, too. Have you got Vincent there?’

      Staff’s voice came briskly back. ‘Yes, Sister. She’s been to tea.’

      ‘Good, tell her to get your tea now, before you dish up. I’ll be with you very shortly. Goodbye.’

      Before she could hang up, Pratt’s voice cut in. ‘Sister Greenslade, Mr Carruthers wants a word with you.’

      Tom’s quiet voice sounded urgent. ‘Sophy, is Max van Oosterwelde there?’

      She looked across the room; the big Dutchman was sprawled in a chair, watching her. She beckoned him, and said, ‘Yes.’ He took the telephone from her and she went to slip away, but he caught her by the hand.

      ‘No, stay. It probably concerns you too.’

      He listened quietly, and said at length, ‘We’d better do her first. We’ll be back in five minutes. No, not at all; I’m glad I can help. You’ve enough to get on with, I imagine.’

      He was still holding her hand, she tried not to notice it while he talked. ‘There’s a girl in. Twelve years old—she’s been stabbed. Carruthers says there are six entries in the abdomen for a start. He’s got his hands full with the RTA. We’ll do the girl first; she’ll be a long job, I expect, but they can keep the other case going until we’re ready.’ He had been speaking quietly, so that only she could hear. Now he got up and went over to Mr Radcliffe. By the time