was very quiet; Sophy pushed her books and forms and lists on one side, and sat rather despondently, doing nothing. Tom Carruthers, coming soft-footed into the little room, looked at her thoughtfully and said nothing. He accepted a mug of coffee and settled in the chair opposite hers. It was unlike Sophy to be down in the mouth, but he knew how fiercely independent she was, and he wasn’t one to pry. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a nasty lot in Cas: femurs, tib and fib, fractured base— Orthopaedic will have their hands full. There’s a nasty internal injuries too—not fit for anything yet, though. This evening at the earliest, I should think. You’ll be on?’
Sophy nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve a one to five—if I’m lucky. I’ll be at Uncle Giles’ as usual.’
‘He’s going on holiday; of course you know about it?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘I must say it’s a bit of luck getting that Dutch chap to do his work. Nice fellow too. Tall as Nelson’s column and ten times as broad. Got a St Andrew’s degree, too, as well as half a dozen Dutch ones. Met him yet?’ He saw the pink stealing into Sophy’s cheeks and looked out of the window.
‘Yes, he’s very good—he took the list on Wednesday.’
Tom passed his mug for more coffee. ‘Quiet type, very amusing when he does talk, though—he’s a baron or something of that sort.’
‘A Jonkheer,’ said Sophy before she could stop herself. She had been to the Reference Library on her day off and looked it up. ‘It’s an hereditary title.’
Tom gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t imagine he’s the sort to broadcast it, though. Plenty of money, I hear. Drives a damn great Bentley too.’
Sophy looked suitably interested and was glad when the telephone rang and a voice demanded Mr Carruthers. He listened to the urgent voice on the other end, and said,
‘Oh, lord, Bill, just as I was going to dip into the Sunday papers. I’ll be down.’ He put down the receiver and turned to Sophy. ‘A perf. Twenty minutes suit you? I’ll go and check, but young Bill’s pretty reliable.’
The morning’s tempo changed. The smooth-running machinery of the theatre, never quite still, accelerated under Sophy’s calm direction. The case came up, was dealt with, and was back in the ward by twelve-thirty.
It was almost an hour later when Sophy rang the door-bell of the nice old house where Mr Radcliffe had lived ever since she had known him. Matty, the elderly maid who opened the door, still 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
