gave him a warm smile. ‘There, I knew you weren’t as nasty as you pretended you were!’
He surveyed her unsmilingly. ‘Get in,’ he said evenly. ‘The bike can be fetched later.’
She shook her head at him. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that; this gentleman stopped to help me and I wouldn’t be so ungrateful as to leave him now.’ She shook her pretty head at him again. ‘You really must get out of the habit of expecting people to do what you want whether they wish to or not. This kind man hasn’t shouted at me, nor did he leave me to mend a puncture all alone in a strange land, which I couldn’t have done anyway because I had nothing to do it with.’
She paused to see the effect of this speech. The professor’s splendid features appeared to be carved in disapproving stone, his eyes pale and hard. She sighed. ‘Oh, well…it was kind of you to come back. Thank you.’ She had no chance to say more, for he had gone, driving much too fast again.
She very nearly told Joan about it when she got back, but really there didn’t seem much point; beyond meeting the professor again, nothing had happened; he still disliked her, indeed, even more so, she thought. There was the possibility that she might not see him again. She paused in the brushing of her mane of hair to reflect that whether he liked her or no, they had met again—she could have stayed her whole two weeks in Holland and not seen hair nor hide of him; she tended to regard that as some sort of sign. Before she got into bed she sat down and wrote to her mother and father; after all, she had told them about him in the first place, they had a right to know that her sudden whim to go to Holland had borne fruit. Rather sour fruit, she conceded.
But not as sour as all that; she was on her way down to breakfast the following morning when Berthe came running upstairs to meet her. She pointed downwards, giggling, and then pointed at Britannia, who instantly thought of all the awful things which could have happened to either Mijnheer or Mevrouw Veske and rushed past her and down the stairs at a great rate.
‘I had no idea that you were so eager to see me again,’ said the professor. ‘Should I be flattered?’
He was standing in the hall, in his car coat with his gloves in his hand, and gave her the distinct impression that he was impatient to be gone.
‘No,’ said Britannia, ‘you shouldn’t—I thought something awful had happened to the Veskes. What are you doing here? Is someone ill?’
The professor’s lip twitched faintly. ‘Cut down to size,’ he murmured. ‘I called to see you.’
Britannia’s incurable optimism bubbled up under her angora sweater, but she checked it with a firm metaphorical hand and asked: ‘Why?’
‘I owe you an apology for my behaviour yesterday. I offer it now.’
‘Well, that’s handsome of you, Professor, I’ll accept it. I expect you were worrying about something and felt irritable.’
‘You concern yourself a little too much about my feelings, Miss Smith. Perhaps it would be better if you were to attend to your own affairs.’
She had annoyed him again. The optimism burst its bubble and she said quietly: ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for coming—I expect you want to go…’
He gave her a long look and went to the door without a word, but before he could open it she had nipped across the hall to stand beside him. ‘I’m only here for a fortnight,’ she told him, and then, unable to resist the question: ‘Do you really live near here?’
‘Yes. Goodbye, Britannia.’
So that was that. She went into breakfast and made lighthearted rejoinders to the questions fired at her, and presently they all began talking about their plans for the day and the professor was forgotten.
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