in a pleasurable exchange of news and the consuming of the supper Mrs Potts had prepared. They all sat around the too large mahogany table, talking and eating and laughing a great deal. The dining-room was faintly mid-Victorian and gloomy with it, but they were all so familiar with it that no one noticed its drawbacks. Presently, when there was no more to be eaten and they had talked themselves to a standstill, they washed up and went back to the sitting-room, to talk again until midnight and later, when they parted for the night and Serena went to her old room at the back of the house, to lie in her narrow bed and wonder what Laurens van Amstel was doing.
Breakfast was half over the next morning when the telephone rang; no one took any notice of it—no one, that was, but Susan, for the family had come to learn during the last few months that almost all the telephone calls were for her, and rather than waste time identifying the young man at the other end of the line, finding Susan and then returning to whatever it was they had been interrupted in doing, it was far better for all concerned if she answered all the calls herself. She tore away now, saying over her shoulder: ‘That’ll be Bert,’ and Serena looked up from her plate to exclaim: ‘But it was Gavin last time I was home—what happened to him?’
Her mother looked up from her letters. ‘Gavin?’ She looked vague. ‘I believe he went to…’
She was interrupted by Susan. ‘It’s for you,’ she told Serena. ‘A man.’
Serena rose without haste, avoiding the eyes focused upon her. ‘Some query at the hospital,’ she suggested airily as she walked, not too fast, out of the room, aware that if that was all it was, she was going to be disappointed. There was no reason why Laurens should telephone—he didn’t even know where she was; all the same she hoped that it was he.
She went into her father’s study and picked up the receiver. Her voice didn’t betray her excitement as she said: ‘Hullo?’
It was Laurens; his voice came gaily over the wire. ‘Serena!’
‘How did you know where I was?’ She sounded, despite her efforts, breathless.
He laughed softly. ‘Your friend Joan—such a nice girl—after all, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t know where you live, is there? What are you doing?’
‘Having breakfast. I’m not sure that I…’
‘You’re not sure about anything, are you, my dear gipsy? I miss you. When are you coming back?’
‘On Monday. I come up on an early morning train.’
‘Not this time—I’ll send Gijs down to pick you up, he’ll drive you.’
She shook her head, although he wasn’t there to see her vehement refusal.
‘No, thank you, I prefer to go by train—it’s very kind…’
‘Rubbish! Gijs won’t mind, he does anything anyone asks of him—more fool he.’ He spoke jokingly and she laughed with him.
‘All the same, I’d rather come up by train.’
He sounded very persuasive. ‘Not to please me? I hate to think of you travelling in a crowded train, and at least Gijs can give you lunch.’
She said in a panicky little voice: ‘But that’s impossible. I’m on duty at one o’clock.’
‘My beautiful gipsy, how difficult you make everything! Gijs will pick you up about nine o’clock on Monday morning. What are you going to do today?’
‘Nothing very interesting, just—just be at home.’ How could she tell him that she was going to make the beds for her mother and probably get the lunch ready as well and spend the afternoon visiting the sexton’s wife who had just had another baby, and the organist’s wife, who’d just lost hers? She felt relief when he commented casually: ‘It sounds nice. Come and see me on Monday, Serena.’
‘Yes—at least, I will if I can get away. You know how it is.’
‘Indeed I do—the quicker you leave it the better.’
‘Leave it?’ she repeated his words faintly.
‘Of course—had you not thought of marrying me?’
Serena was bereft of words. ‘I—I—’ she began, and then: ‘I must go,’ she managed at last. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, gipsy girl, I shall see you on Monday.’
She nodded foolishly without speaking and replaced the receiver gently. She hadn’t heard aright, of course, and even if she had, he must have been joking—he joked a lot. She sat down in her father’s chair behind his desk, quite forgetful of breakfast, trying to sort out her feelings. They slid silkily in and out of her head, evading her efforts to pin them down—the only thought which remained clearly and firmly in her mind was the one concerning Gijs van Amstel; she didn’t want to go back to London with him. The idea of being in his company for several hours disquieted her, although she didn’t know why; he had done nothing to offend or annoy her, indeed, he had exerted himself to be civil, and she had no interest in him, only the fact that he was Laurens’s cousin was the common denominator of their acquaintance, so, she told herself vigorously, she was merely being foolish.
She went back to her interrupted breakfast then, and although no one asked her any questions at all she felt compelled to explain into the eloquent silence. When she had finished, omitting a great deal, her mother remarked: ‘He sounds nice, dear, such a change from your usual patients—is his English good?’
Serena, grateful for her parent’s tactful help, told her that yes, it was, very good.
‘And this cousin—he’s coming to fetch you on Monday morning?’
Serena drank her cold tea. ‘Yes.’
‘Where will he sleep?’ her mother, a practical woman, wanted to know.
Serena’s lovely eyes opened wide. She hadn’t given a thought to the man who was coming to fetch her, and now, upon thinking about it, she really didn’t care where he slept. Perhaps he would leave early in the morning. She suggested this lightheartedly and her mother mused: ‘He must be a very nice man then, to spoil a night’s sleep to come and collect someone he doesn’t even know well.’
‘Oh,’ said Serena, her head full of Laurens, ‘he seems to do exactly what Laurens tells him—I suppose he’s a poor relation or a junior partner or something of that sort. He’s got the most awful old car.’
‘Oh?’ it was her father this time. ‘Is he a very young man, then?’
Serena dragged her thoughts away from Laurens and considered. ‘Oh, no—he must be years older—he looks about thirty-five, I suppose. I haven’t really noticed.’
Her mother gave her a swift, penetrating glance and said with deceptive casualness: ‘Well, we can find out on Monday, can’t we?’ she smiled at her eldest child. ‘And how old is this Laurence?’
‘Laurens,’ Serena corrected her gently. ‘About twenty-six.’
‘Good-looking?’ asked Susan, who had been sitting silent all this time, not saying a word.
‘Yes,
