Hilltop Tryst. Betty Neels

similar narrow houses. Beatrice rang the bell and then followed her aunt’s majestic progress into a pleasant waiting-room, where they were greeted by an elderly receptionist and asked to sit down.

      ‘My appointment is for half-past eleven,’ pointed out Aunt Sybil, ‘and it is exactly that hour.’ She drew an indignant breath so that her corsets creaked.

      ‘That’s right, Miss Browning.’ The receptionist spoke smoothly. ‘But the doctor is engaged for the moment.’

      ‘I do not expect to be kept waiting.’

      The receptionist smiled politely, picked up the telephone and became immersed in conversation. She was putting it down again when a door at the end of the room opened and a woman came out. Beatrice could hear her saying goodbye to someone on the other side of the door and sighed thankfully; any minute now and her aunt would be whisked away by the nurse who had come into the room.

      ‘You will accompany me,’ decreed her aunt. ‘I may need your support.’ She sailed in the wake of the nurse and was ushered through the door, and Beatrice, walking reluctantly behind her, came to a sudden halt. The eminent doctor, a cardiologist of the first rank, according to her aunt, coming forward to shake her aunt’s hand, was Mr Latimer.

      A rather different Mr Latimer, though; this elegant man in his sober grey suit and spotless linen was a far cry from the casual walker in his old trousers and shirt. He showed no surprise at the sight of her, but greeted her aunt quietly and then waited with a slightly lifted eyebrow until Great-Aunt Sybil said testily, ‘Oh, this is a great-niece of mine. I have a delicate constitution and may require her support.’

      Mr Latimer said ‘How do you do?’ to Beatrice with a blandness which led her to suppose that he had forgotten her completely, observed that he had an excellent nurse in attendance and asked in what way could he advise his patient?

      ‘You are a very young man,’ observed Miss Browning in a suspicious voice. ‘I trust that you are adequately trained to diagnose illness?’

      Beatrice blushed and looked at her feet; her aunt was going to be awful.

      ‘If I might know the nature of your illness?’ asked Mr Latimer with just the right amount of professional dignity. He glanced at the folder on his desk, containing letters from various colleagues on the subject of Miss Browning.

      Miss Browning fixed him with a cold stare. ‘I suffer great pain in my chest. It is at times unendurable, but I do not wish to bother those around me with complaints: I have learnt to conceal my suffering. I think I may say that I have more than my share of courage and patience. The pain is here,’ she patted her massive bosom gently, ‘and I will explain exactly…’

      Which she did at great length, while Dr Latimer sat quietly watching her, though now and again he took a quick look at Beatrice, still examining her feet and wishing the ground would open beneath her.

      Presently he interrupted her aunt’s flow of talk. ‘Yes. Well, Miss Browning, I think the best thing is for me to examine you. If you will go with Nurse, she will prepare you.’

      Miss Browning swept out, pausing by Beatrice to beg her in ringing tones to come to her aid of she were to fall faint. ‘For this will be an ordeal.’

      Beatrice mumbled and peeped across the room to where Dr Latimer sat behind his desk. He was looking at her and smiling, and after a moment she smiled back.

      ‘Don’t you miss your green fields and hills?’ he asked.

      She nodded. After a moment she said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

      ‘No? I rather feel it was inevitable that somehow we should meet.’

      He got up in response to the buzzer on his desk and went to the examination-room, leaving her to wonder what on earth he meant.

      She had plenty of time to ponder his words, for it was quite fifteen minutes before he came back, and there was nothing in his face to tell her what his examination had revealed. He sat down and began to write until after another five minutes his patient came back.

      Miss Browning swept in on a tide of ill temper, sat herself down and addressed herself in quelling tones to the impassive man sitting behind his desk.

      ‘I very much doubt,’ began Great-Aunt Sybil, ‘if you are qualified to diagnose my particular illness. It seems to me that you have failed to appreciate my suffering.’

      Dr Latimer appeared unworried. He said smoothly, ‘Miss Browning, you have a sound heart; your pain is caused by indigestion. I will give you a diet which, if you choose to follow it, will dispel the pain. From what you have told me, your diet is too rich. I will write to your doctor and inform him of my diagnosis.’

      He stood up and went to her chair. ‘What a relief it must be to you that you are so splendidly healthy.’ He offered a hand, and she had perforce to take it. ‘Nurse will give you the diet sheet.’

      He accompanied her to the door, and Beatrice was relieved to see that for once her aunt had met her match: Dr Latimer’s silky manners screened a steely intention to be in command of the situation. They were ushered out without Miss Browning having the time to utter any of the telling replies she might have had in mind.

      The nurse had gone ahead to open the waiting-room door, and for a moment Beatrice and Dr Latimer were alone.

      He held out a large, firm hand. ‘Goodbye for the present,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, do you intend to see my aunt again?’

      ‘Er—no—but we shall meet again.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘You don’t live with your aunt?’

      ‘Heavens, no! Her companion left and I’m staying with her until we can find another one.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you.’

      Aunt Sybil had turned at the doorway and was looking back at them. ‘Come at once, Beatrice. I am exhausted.’

      ‘Dear, oh, dear,’ murmured Dr Latimer at his most soothing, ‘we must see about that companion, mustn’t we?’

      She thought that he was merely being comforting, but then, she didn’t know him well.

      Lunch was a stormy meal, taken at her aunt’s favourite restaurant. Naturally it consisted of all the things Miss Browning had been advised not to eat, and while they ate she gave her opinion of doctors in general and Dr Latimer in particular. ‘He should be struck off,’ she declared.

      ‘Whatever for?’ asked Beatrice. ‘I thought he had beautiful manners.’

      ‘Pooh—any silly woman could have her head turned by the professional civility these men employ—I am able to see through such tricks.’

      Beatrice poured the coffee. ‘Aunt Sybil, I think you might at least give his advice an airing…’

      ‘I shall do just as I see fit. We will go now to that agency I have written to; there must be any number of women needing work. Just look at the unemployment…’

      But there was no one suitable, nor was there at the other two agencies they visited. Beatrice, a cheerful girl by nature, allowed herself to get despondent at the prospect of weeks of Great-Aunt Sybil’s irascible company.

      Only it wasn’t to be weeks, after all. Three days after her aunt’s visit to Dr Latimer, a letter came. The writer, having seen Miss Browning’s advertisement, begged to apply for the post of companion, and was willing to present herself at an interview whenever it was convenient.

      ‘Let her come this afternoon,’ said Great-Aunt Sybil grandly. ‘She sounds a sensible woman.’

      ‘Well, she could hardly get here and back again today,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘It’s a London address—besides, there’s the fare, she might not have it.’

      ‘I cannot think what these people do with their money.’

      ‘They don’t have any—or not much to do anything with.’

      Her