Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'This
is
Michael
Norman.
We
became
acquainted
last night,
neither
of
us
feeling
like
sleeping.’
Maitland
swept
out
his
arm
as
if
embracing
the
stranger.
'We've
half
decided
I'm
going
to
alter
his
life.’
'Monty,'
the
stranger
said.
'My
friends
call
me
Monty.’
He
struck
her
then
as
being
common.
It
was
like
Maitland
to
gather
up
some
stranger
out
of
a
humdrum
journey
on
a
train.
I'd
have
snoozed
all
night
–
or
pretended.
I
would
have
hated
sharing
with
someone
I'd
never
met
before.
Instead
she
had
slept
in
her
own
bed,
dozing
and
starting
awake
in
case
she
overslept.
Now
suddenly,
looking
at
them
smiling,
she
was
the
one
who
was
tired
as
if
at
the
end
of
a
journey.
'Your
brother,'
she
said
to
the
girl,
'wasn't
he
on
the train?
Did
he
miss
his
connection?
From
Bristol,
was
it you
said?'
Infuriatingly,
the
girl
shook
back
her
hair,
went
again
through
the
same
pantomime.
'Oh,
not
on
this
train,'
she
said.
'Not
on
this
one.’
And
she
smiled
brilliantly.
'Not
coming
from
Bristol.’
Miss
Lindgren
seemed
to
be
one
of
those
girls
who
suffer
a
personality
change
in
the
presence
of
men.
She
longed
to
tell
her,
they
won't
think
any
more
of
you
for
simpering
like
an
idiot.
Nor
much
less
of
her,
she
added
honestly –
not
when
you're
as
pretty
as
this
one
is.
'We
can't
offer
you
a
lift
then,'
Maitland
was
saying
to
the
girl,
so
firmly
that
it
seemed
he
too
had
had
enough
of
her,
'not
if
you're
waiting
for
your
brother.’
That
settled,
he
turned
to
the
man –
what
had
he
called
him?
Norman.
Michael
Norman.
Monty – 'to
his
friends.’
'But
you'll
come
with
us?'
'I
could
walk
–
The
station
here's
right
in
the
centre
of the
city,
isn't
it?
Maybe
you
could
recommend
a
place?'
'Not
to
a
hotel,'
Maitland
said
impatiently.
'Come back
and
have
breakfast
with
us.
We've
plenty
to
talk about
still.’
Glancing
back
on
some
impulse,
she
saw
Miss
Lindgren
was
left
behind
and
disconsolate.
The
impression
was
so
clearly
a
trick
of
the
imagination
that
she
dismissed
it
at
once.
It
distracted
her,
however,
so
that
it
was
only
at
the
car
that
she
took
it
in
properly
that
the
man
Norman
did
propose
to
intrude
himself
between
them,
and
not
just
on
the
journey
back,
to
which
she
had
so
much
looked
forward,
but
into
their
home.
It
was
too
bad.
'Darling,
are
you
being
fair
to
Mr
Norman?'
she
wondered.
It
was
so
unreasonable
that
another
possibility
occurred
to
her.
'Unless,
of
course,
you
were
going
on
anyway?
To
Balinter?'
'Where?'
Monty
Norman
asked,
and
it
was
obvious
that
he
did
not
know
the
village
where
they
lived
nor
even
the
town
of
Balinter,
or
how
far
away
they
might
be;
and
that,
horribly,
he
did
not
care.
He
was
ready
on
the
strength
of
a
casual
meeting
on
a
train
to
come
with
them.
Yet
he
must,
surely,
have
travelled
for
some
purpose.
No
one
travelled
without
a
purpose.
That
was
inexplicable
to
her.
Chapter 2
Her
mind
refused
to
accept
the
reality
of
the
white
cloth
thrown
over
the
corner
of
the
glass,
and
as
drowsily
she
questioned
its
presence
she
began
to
recognise
the
familiar
corner
of
their
bedroom
and
the
reflection
white
in
the
tilted
mirror
of
the
window
curtain
with
the
sunlight
behind
it.
Going
to
meet
Maitland
...
so
excited
...
surely
it
said something
about
the
youthfulness
of
her
heart.
What
a
fool
you
are!
Thought
some
Lucy
Inside,
and
she
came
fully
awake.
Abruptly
she
rolled
over.
Maitland's
bed
was
empty.
What
time
was
it?
They
had
come
home
and
the
afternoon
had
passed
and
they
had
eaten
that
good
dinner
–
a
long
leisurely
meal
with
wine
–
just
as
she
had
planned
it.
But
not
for
three.
‘
Tomorrow,’
Maitland
had
said
when
at
last
they
were alone,
‘
I
have
to
go
into
the
Department,
but
I'll
take
him
off
when
I
get
back.’
He
had
turned
away
from
her
and
gone
to
sleep.
Perhaps,
she
thought,
Maitland
has
come
back
and
collected
him
and
gone
off
again.
He
might
not
have
wanted
to
waken
her.
Perhaps
she
had
slept
the
morning
away.
Anyway,
even
if
Maitland's
inexplicable
guest
was
still
here,
why
should
she
be
hospitable?
Wasn't
he
the
reason
she
had
slept
so
badly
last
night?
Closing
her
eyes,
she
felt
the
pressure
in
her
bladder,
conspiratorial,
adding
to
the
luxury
of
warmth
and
lying
very
still.
A
noise
raised
her
head
from
the
pillow.
He
might
be
wandering
the house,
prying.
When
she
did
get
up,
she
had
waited
too
long
and
had
to
crouch
against
the
discomfort
as
she
hurried
to
the
door.
She
went
softly
past
the
bedroom
on
the
upper
landing
then
remembered
he
had
been
put
for
the
night
into
the
little
room
at
the
back.
Its
door
was
closed.
With
a
groan
she
scuttled
into
the
bathroom.
As
if
he
in
his
turn
might
be
listening,
the
gush
of
her
water
embarrassed
her,
though
there
was
no
controlling
the
pleasure
of
its
issuing.
Certainly,
the
house
felt
empty.
After
looking
in
the
front
room,
she
peeped
into
Maitland's
study
and
then
the
back
sitting-room.
When
there
was
no
one
in
the
big
kitchen-dining
room
at
the
rear
of
the
house,
she
relaxed,
sure
she
had
the
place
to
herself.
As
she
drifted
about
the
rooms,
she
could
have
placed
every
item
of
furniture,
every
ornament,
and
told
where
each
one
had
been
bought
or
by
whom
gifted.
This
little
chair
by
the
phone,
recovered
in
velvet
to
be
respectable,
had
come
from
their
first
house
and
that
chiffonier
from
an
auction
in
Annan
(the
clearing
out
of
some
country
mansion,
furniture
piled
in
the
stalls
of
the
cattle
market)
and
the
desk
in
Maitland's
study
they'd
bought
specially
for
coming
here
eleven
years
ago.
She
stared
blindly
at
the
painting
that
hung
behind
the
desk,
not
seeing
it
but
the
day
on
which
it
had
been
bought
.
Sun
in
the
park
and
the
vivid
colours
like
exotic
flowers
attracting
them
so
that
they
ran
hand
in
hand
across
the
lawns
to
where
railings
were
made
over
into
a
summer
gallery
of
student
art
and
the
painters,
the
young
painters
–
but
the
world
was
young
then
–
and
Maitland
smiling
at
the
girl
and
crying,
‘
Yes!
Though
we
can't
afford
it,
five
pounds,
five
whole
pounds!’
Laughing,
‘But
all
the
same
we're
going
to
have
it!
We're
not
going
to
let
this
one
go –
it's
beautiful! It's
an
investment
–
we're
investing
in
you,
we're
investing
in
your
talent! This
is
our
investment
of
faith
in
you.’
And
she
had
never
forgotten
the
wonderful
look
which
the
girl
had
given
him
when
he
said
that
to
her –
the
look,
yes,
the
look
had
been
beautiful
–
as
for
the
painting, privately
she
thought
it
a
drab
thing,
a
little
square
of
brown
colours,
four
potatoes
on
a
cloth
–
but
at
some
lost
level
of
her
mind
she
had
never
ceased
to
be
warmed
by
the
event
of
the
girl's
response
–
as
if
Maitland,
not
really
all
that
much
older
and
with
no
power
or
place
in
the
world,
had
been
able
to
give
a
promise,
a
key
to
the
future,
golden
like
the
sun;
from
somewhere
in
himself
he
had
given
the
girl
that
as
with
authority.
The
painting
had
been
the
first
thing
Maitland
and
she
had
bought
together;
the
following
year
they
married.