business in hand, or because they admired her oration, was a moot point.
Talking animatedly to the vicar, she did a round of the stalls, but not of course the jumble, and left presently, the richer by a number of useless articles she didn’t want, and almost totally unnoticed by the audience she had so recently addressed.
Charity, persuading a haughty lady from the better end of St John’s Wood to buy a crocheted bedjacket in a revolting pink, had just taken the money and popped the garment into a bag before she could change her mind, when she looked up and saw Professor Wyllie-Lyon, head and shoulders above everyone else, coming towards her. She handed change, assured the lady that she would never regret her purchase and, swallowing back pleasure at the sight of him, wished him what she hoped was a cool good afternoon.
He didn’t bother to answer that. ‘Is this how you spend your leisure?’ he wanted to know. ‘I must say you have remarkably persuasive powers; no woman worth her salt would wear a pink monstrosity such as you have just sold her.’
‘This is a bazaar; people buy things they don’t want—it’s quite usual.’ She re-arranged some baby bootees in sky-blue. ‘How—how did you get here?’
‘By car.’
‘Oh, well, yes. Of course. I mean, do you know anyone here?’
‘You.’
‘Oh, I thought—that is, have you been away, Professor?’
‘Ah—you missed me.’ He smiled in a self-satisfied way so that she felt impelled to say, ‘I missed all the work.’
‘You sound tart.’ He looked around him. ‘How long does this go on for?’
‘Until half-past five.’ She became aware that Aunt Emily was sidling towards her end of the stall, intent on being introduced. She said clearly, ‘Aunt, this is Professor Wyllie-Lyon from the hospital—my aunt, Miss Graham.’
She had always thought of him as being a reserved man, very large and learned, and with a mind way above church bazaars and the like; she had been wrong. He listened with every sign of interest to her aunt’s rambling discourse encompassing church bazaars in general, her own stall in particular and the amount of work it involved. ‘Although of course it would be far harder if it wasn’t for Charity’s help—such a dear girl; a real support to her father and myself.’ Aunt Emily, quite carried away, went on, ‘Such a pity about Sidney, you know. We quite thought…’
Charity’s voice throbbed with feeling, even though it was quiet. ‘I don’t expect that the professor is interested.’
Aunt Emily prided herself on being able to take a hint. ‘Of course, dear, how foolish of me.’ She peered up at him, studying his impassive face. ‘I dare say you’re very clever and learned—Charity’s father is, you know—a bookworm, as I so often tell him. I like a nice romantic novel myself, but he prefers first editions…’
‘Indeed?’ Professor Wyllie-Lyon had focused all his attention on Aunt Emily. ‘A man after my own heart; I’m a collector myself.’
Aunt Emily beamed. ‘Well, but how interesting; you must come and meet my brother, I’m sure you would have a lot in common.
The professor’s eyes rested briefly on Charity’s face. ‘I believe that we have.’
Charity, counting out change to a very pregnant young woman who had bought three pairs of bootees, stretched her ears, anxious not to miss a word.
‘If you are free this evening?’ began Aunt Emily. ‘We close the bazaar in half an hour—perhaps you would care to come back with us and meet my brother? I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’
The professor’s heavy-lidded eyes took in the look of consternation on Charity’s face and he smiled very faintly. ‘That would be delightful,’ he observed blandly. ‘I have my car outside; may I give you a lift? I’ll be outside when you are ready to leave.’
He took his leave, gave Charity a casual nod, and wandered off to try his luck on the bottle stall.
‘Such a nice man,’ declared her aunt. She turned rather vague blue eyes on to Charity’s. ‘So easy to talk to. Do you see much of him, my dear?’
Charity was totting up the takings. ‘Very little, Aunty, although I do see a great deal of his work.’ She added worriedly, ‘I can’t think how he got here.’
‘By car, dear,’ said her aunt, adding, ‘So nice to get a lift home; my feet ache.’
The bazaar wound itself to a close, the last stragglers left, the takings were handed over to the vicar and the contents of the stalls were bundled into bags and boxes, to be stored until the summer fête next year—proceedings which took very little time, for the various ladies who had manned the stalls were longing for their tea. All the same, Charity and her aunt were among the last to leave, for the latter could never resist a quick gossip with her friends. He’ll be gone, thought Charity gloomily as they went out into the October dusk. But he wasn’t; he was sitting in his car, showing no sign of impatience. He got out when he saw them, ushered them both into the back and drove the short distance through the quiet suburban streets.
‘Here we are,’ declared Aunt Emily, quite unnecessarily. ‘Do come in. Did you have tea? I shall make some at once, for we had none, although I dare say you would prefer a drink with my brother.’
Charity, following her aunt into the house and then standing on one side while that lady ushered him in, didn’t look at him. She felt awkward in a situation thrust upon her; probably the professor had absolutely no wish to meet her father. After all, there was no earthly reason why he should, even if he did collect books. She had the awful feeling that Aunt Emily had seized the opportunity to invite him under the impression that he might be Mr Right. Charity squirmed at the thought; her aunt had been going on for years about Mr Right and just for a little while Sidney had filled the bill; now she would start her well-meant matchmaking again.
She murmured a nothing and sidled into the kitchen to get the tea. Pray heaven that, by the time it was ready, he would be in her Father’s study drinking whisky or, better still, on the point of departure.
Neither of those hopes was to be fulfilled. Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting, very much at his ease, in the sitting room with her aunt on one side of him and her father on the other. Her aunt was taking no part in the conversation, understandably, for the two gentlemen were discussing Homer’s works and arguing pleasantly over which of the seven cities had the honour of being his birthplace. They paused, however, while Aunt Emily handed tea and cake and chatted about her afternoon. ‘Very successful,’ she declared in tones of satisfaction. ‘Was it not, Charity?’
Charity agreed; she had had very little to say and now her father observed with vague kindness, ‘A pleasant afternoon out for you, my dear; I’m sure you enjoyed it.’
She said that, Oh, yes, she had, and got up to fill the teapot, and presently the two men excused themselves on the plea that there was a particularly fine first edition her father wished to show to his guest. Charity, listening to them prosing on about Homer, tossing bits of poems in the original Greek to and fro, felt rising frustration. She must be tired, she decided, clearing away the tea things and conferring with her aunt as to what they should have for supper.
‘Do you suppose he’ll stay?’ wondered Aunt Emily hopefully. ‘There’s that quiche you made
