her good morning or ask her how she fared. Instead he turned back to open the door for Juffrouw Naald, who steamed in with a coffee tray, set it on the desk, glanced at them in turn with coy speculation, and went away again.
There were two cups on the tray, and: ‘You pour,’ said Doctor van der Teile.
‘I have my coffee at ten o’clock with the doctors, thank you,’ Cressida told him a little crossly; he was interrupting her work and disturbing her mind too, and why shouldn’t he pour his own coffee?
‘It’s only nine o’clock, and I missed my breakfast,’ and he managed, despite his size and obvious splendid health, to look and sound wistful and half starved. ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘be a dear kind girl.’ He lifted the lid of the dish on the tray. ‘Buttered toast—bless old Naaldtje!’
Cressida picked up the coffee-pot, a handsome silver one of a size made for giants. ‘She is extremely kind,’ she observed primly.
He took his cup from her, sat down behind his partner’s desk and began on the toast. ‘She is also very romantic; she has been trying to find me a suitable wife for the last ten years. She contrives to bring to my notice every likely female she happens to approve of and offer them for my inspection. I rather fancy that you are the latest.’
Cressida choked into her coffee. ‘What utter rubbish! I have no intention—it’s too silly…’
‘Well, there’s no need to get worked up about it. She means well, bless her, and it isn’t as though I’ve shown any interest in you.’
His voice was bland, and so reasonable that she had to swallow the furious retort she longed to utter, although she did allow herself the comfort of an indignant snort. He took no notice of this but went on: ‘In any case, she’s wasting her time—I’ve found the girl for myself and I intend to marry her.’
Cressida nibbled at a biscuit and wondered at the disappointment she was feeling; only a few minutes ago she had wished him married; he needed a wife, for he had by far too big an opinion of himself.
‘If she’ll have you,’ she observed severely.
‘Ah, yes. A moot point, although I’m not sure what moot means—we can always deal with that when the time comes.’ He passed his cup. ‘And how is the book going? Not too much for you, I hope?’
There was silky amusement in his voice and she pinkened. ‘The book goes very well, and as I am here merely to type it and make a few small adjustments, I believe that it won’t be too much for me.’
‘You’re a touchy young woman, aren’t you? Ready to swallow me alive, given half a chance.’ He passed his cup yet again. ‘Any plans to marry?’
Really, the cheek of the man! She said haughtily: ‘No.’
The haughtiness went unnoticed or he had a thick skin. ‘Boy friend?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Ah—I apologise, I shouldn’t have asked such a silly question.’
Cressida fired up immediately. ‘And why not, pray?’
‘Because you are as good as you are beautiful, Cressida.’ He smiled at her across the desk, his eyes very bright. ‘You are also sad. Why is that?’
She made a great business of putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. The unexpected urge to tell him took her by surprise so that she had to keep a tight hold on her tongue. He didn’t even like her, and she was almost sure that she didn’t like him, with his easy self-assurance. She shook her head and said nothing at all, and after a moment he said quietly: ‘Ah, well, you shall tell me some time—it’s good to talk about one’s sorrow. It eases it—you must know that from your patients.’
‘Yes, oh yes—but listening isn’t the same as telling someone…’
He got up and wandered to the door. ‘We all do it at some time,’ he pointed out. ‘Any messages?’
‘Who for?’ Her lovely eyes opened in surprise.
‘I’m on my way to London, I shall be at the Royal General tomorrow.’
Cressida stared at him; he would ask anyone there and they would tell him why she had left; that her parents had died; that she had had to get away. She said: ‘No, thanks,’ in a doubtful voice, and he said at once: ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t try to find out anything about you—you’ll tell me yourself sooner or later.’
He left her sitting there, staring down at the sheet of typewriting in front of her, the only thought in her head that he would keep his word.
He was back in two days and this time she saw him arrive, for she had been for a brisk walk after lunch, well wrapped up in her good tweed coat against the cold and damp. The sky had been sullen all day and now it was rapidly darkening, the little village looked sombre and bleak and there were already lights in some of the small houses. An afternoon for tea round the fire… She sighed involuntarily and quickened her step. The book was going very well, but she would have to keep at it. The next day was Sunday and she would be free, but she already had plans to work for a large part of the day. She had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She would go to church in the morning and then browse through the bookshelves until she found something to her liking. She had her knitting, and any number of letters to write too, but still she felt sure that there would be time and to spare for her typing.
She started round the square towards the doctor’s house and then turned her head at the sound of the car coming from the other end—a Bentley, silver grey and sleek, whispering powerfully to a halt. She stood and watched while Doctor van der Teile got out and took the shallow steps two at a time to the front door of her employer’s home. Even at that distance she could see that he was elegantly turned out, his car coat making him appear even larger than he was. When the door opened and he had gone inside, she walked on, but instead of using the great brass knocker on the front door, she went past it to the surgery entrance and so to Doctor van Blom’s study, where she took off her outdoor things, warmed her chilly hands by the stove and then sat down at her desk. It wasn’t time for tea yet, she might as well get another page done.
She had typed just three lines when the door opened and Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida jumped a little at the suddenness of his appearance and made a muddle of the work she was typing—he was a disquieting person. She erased the mistake, said ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ and gave him an inquiring look.
‘Hullo.’ He sounded friendly. ‘You weren’t here just now. Do you use a secret passage or something?’
‘I came in through the surgery.’
His eyes rested briefly on her coat. ‘Ah—you didn’t want to be seen, was that it? Probably you saw me arrive… All right, you don’t have to say anything; your face is an open book. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Really it was no business of his, and yet she found herself giving him a brief resumé of her plans.
‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock,’ he told her. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Go?’ repeated Cressida.
‘Come, come, girl, you must have some preference. Leeuwarden? Groningen? the Afsluitdijk? Amsterdam?’
