Roses for Christmas. Betty Neels

at me? Oh, you’ve gone through the motions, but they didn’t register. You should smile more often.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘How delightful it is not to be quarrelling with you.’

      She eyed him with disfavour. ‘What a beastly thing to say! I’ve not quarrelled with you, I’ve been very polite.’

      ‘I know, I’d rather quarrel, but not now—let’s call a truce.’

      She seized her opportunity. ‘Tell me about Imogen.’

      He leaned back on the hard wooden chair. ‘What do you want to know?’

      Eleanor was so surprised at his meek acceptance of her question that she didn’t speak for a moment. ‘Well, what does she do and where does she live and where will you live when you’re married, and is she very pretty?’ She added wistfully: ‘You said she was small…’

      ‘Half your size and very, very pretty—you forgot to ask how old she is, by the way. Twenty-six, and she doesn’t do anything—at least, she doesn’t have a job. She doesn’t need to work, you see. But she fills her days very nicely with tennis and swimming and riding and driving—and she dances beautifully. She lives in den Haag and I live near Groningen, about a hundred and fifty miles apart—an easy run on the motorway.’

      ‘But that’s an awful long way to go each weekend,’ observed Eleanor.

      ‘Every weekend? Oh, not as often as that, my dear. Besides, Imogen stays with friends a good deal—I did tell you that she’s in the south of France now and later on she will be going to Switzerland for the winter sports.’ His voice was very level. ‘We decided when we became engaged that we would make no claims on each other’s time and leisure.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Eleanor blankly, ‘how very strange. I don’t think I’d like that at all.’

      ‘If you were engaged to me? But you’re not.’ He smiled thinly. ‘A fine state of affairs that would be! You would probably expect me to sit in your pocket and we should quarrel without pause.’

      ‘Probably.’ Her voice was colourless. ‘I think I’d better go back to the ward, if you don’t mind…’ She was interrupted by the cheerful booming voice of Doctor Blake, Sir Arthur’s right-hand man, who clapped a hand on her shoulder, greeted her with the easy friendliness of a long-standing acquaintance and asked: ‘May I sit down? It’s Doctor van Hensum, isn’t it? I’ve just been with Sir Arthur and he mentioned that you might be here still—I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

      ‘I’m just on my way back to the ward,’ said Eleanor, and wished she wasn’t. ‘I’m a bit late already.’ She smiled a general sort of smile and got to her feet. ‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said quickly and hardly looking at Fulk. He had got to his feet too, and his ‘Goodbye, Eleanor,’ was very quiet.

      She had no time to think about him after that, for Miss Tremble had seen fit to go into a coma and it took most of the afternoon to get her out of it again. Eleanor missed her tea and the pleasant half hour of gossip she usually enjoyed with the other Sisters and went off duty a little late, to change rapidly and catch a bus to the other side of the city where an aunt, elderly, crotchety but nevertheless one of the family, would be waiting to give her supper. It had become a custom for Eleanor to visit her on her return from any holidays so that she might supply her with any titbits of news, and although it was sometimes a little tiresome, the old lady had got to depend upon her visits. She spent a dull evening, answering questions and listening to her companion’s various ailments, and when she at last escaped and returned to the hospital, she was too tired to do more than climb into bed as quickly as possible.

      It was two more days before she discovered, quite by chance, that Fulk had gone back to Holland only a few hours after they had shared their meal together in the Blue Bird Café, and for some reason the news annoyed her; she had been wondering about him, it was true, but somehow she had taken it for granted that he would come and say goodbye before he left, although there was no reason why he should have done so, but one would have thought, she told herself peevishly, that after making such a thing about taking her to lunch, he could at least have mentioned that he was on the point of leaving; he hadn’t even said goodbye. She paused in her reflections: he had, even though he hadn’t told her he was leaving; probably thinking it was none of her business, anyway—nor was it.

      She glared at her nice face in the silly little mirror on the office wall and went back to her work once more, and while she chatted with her patients and listened to their complaints and worries, she decided that Fulk wasn’t worth thinking about, quite forgetting that she had told herself that already. She would most probably not see him again; she could forget him, and the beautiful Imogen with him. She finished her round and went back down the ward, the very picture of calm efficiency, and went into her office, where she sat at her desk, staring at the papers she was supposed to be dealing with while she speculated about Imogen; it was strange that although she had never met the girl and was never likely to, she should have such strong feelings of dislike for her.