by Norrey Ford
He left her abruptly. Sally hurried back to the office, making rapid calculations in her head. She could work till, say, seven-fifteen, and come in an hour earlier to-morrow morning. It would make her late for Max, but Mr. Ware would allow her to telephone him, and he would—he must—make allowances, understand that her work was important.
Max was in no mood to make allowances. He sounded furious. She heard herself gabbling excuses too quickly, her palms damp with nervousness.
"I thought you were only a junior at that office," he said rudely. "Your work can't be important."
"But it is, Max. I—I won't be very late." She heard her voice take on a pleading note and despised herself for it. "It's only half an hour out of the whole evening."
He laughed shortly. "My dear child, whatever made you think we were spending the whole evening together? I've sandwiched you between appointments and I can't consider your convenience if you
won't consider mine. I'm dining with some important people at half-past eight."
At last a surge of pride came to her aid. She said lightly, "Well—that's too bad. Sorry. Another day then, Max?"
"Okay, okay, some other time. Good-bye." A definite click told her Max had gone.
She knew, with complete certainty, there would be no more Max. She had been deceiving herself, making excuses for those other times. There had been relief, finality in his tone. It seemed obvious to her now that he had been wanting to shake her off—that she had given him opportunity. She sat before her typewriter with hands folded, staring into a future bleakly empty, containing no Max. She visualised a sad monkey-face, and she knew she had sacrificed Max to the appeal in those eloquent eyes; a man who did not even understand her language but whose bent shoulders and small turned-in feet said in any tongue nobody cares!
But somebody did care! Paul Winn. He must care passionately for the poor, the old, the troubled and ill-done-to. He had won his reputation as a fighter because he fought with heart as well as mind. Those odd types she saw waiting with dogged patience in the "loose-box." No wonder they came—no wonder they had such faith.
The lamp above her desk made a pool of bleak light in the dingy office. Why, all those dingy books, those dusty files—were people! Quite suddenly she saw the work as Paul must see it; not a string of archaic words on parchment, not a comic policeman taking names, but a strong arm protecting the weak against the bullies, the exploiters, the profiteers. She felt a flicker of the enthusiasm which drove Paul —which made him drive others mercilessly.
Well, if there was to be no Max, at least she could finish the work to-night, however long it took. But first she rang up her brother Simon. His job was selling cars, and he always worked late at the garage.
"Simon? Sorry, I couldn't make it with Max tonight. I've important work to finish. Are you going home—and, if so, will you tell Mummy I'll be late, and not to worry?"
"I'll tell her." A pause, then Simon's voice changed slightly. "Were you going out with Max?"
"Just a drink. Nothing important. Don't forget to tell Mummy."
"I shan't forget, fuss-pot. Sally—listen. Max isn't your sort. He's—well, he's too old."
Her breath caught on a sob, which she changed into a reasonably realistic chuckle. "He's only thirty. You're twenty-six yourself."
"Thirty be ! Well, if we're going in for
statistics, you are only twenty-two and I wouldn't like it even if you were fifty-two."
"Why the down on poor Max? He's your boss." "That doesn't make him a suitable escort for my sister."
"Don't worry—I'm not going, anyway. And I'm busy. Good-bye."
By eight-fifteen, when Paul let himself into the office with his latch-key, Sally was typing the last page.
When he saw her, he clapped a hand to his forehead. "Did I dictate as much as that? My poor infant, you must be starving. Let me give you a meal, then I'll run you home."
Sally had noticed, half an hour earlier, that she was ravenous, but she knew she would be scared stiff if the famous Mr. Paul took her for a meal. She'd be tongue-tied and probably have hiccups into the bargain. So she said politely, "No, thank you, Mr. Paul. I am not at all hungry, and my home is quite near the bus route. Please don't trouble."
"Sure?" She saw his eyes stray longingly to the pile of work.
"Quite sure." She gave him her sudden warm smile. "Thank you very much all the same."
Sally was not at all nervous, but it was a relief to turn out of the dark narrow streets of the Old Town
into the bright High Street. As she turned the corner, a mouth-watering smell of ham and eggs stopped her like a five-barred gate. It came from a tiny restaurant run by Austrians. It had spotless gingham curtains and bare tables scrubbed white. Sometimes there were exciting things on the menu, like Wiener Schnitzel or Nusse Torte. But to-night it was simply ham and eggs. Sally hesitated, weakened, went in.
The place was almost full. The little proprietor sped between the tables like a dancing master, his chins glistening with heat and good nature.
"Ham and egg, Madame? Certainly. Small portion?"
"Large," said Sally firmly.
She kept her mind resolutely away from the dreamed-of evening which had proved to be only fairy gold, turned to a heap of dead leaves. Instead, she tucked into her supper with a hearty young appetite. She did not particularly notice when a voice above her head said, "Is this seat reserved?" or when a figure slid into the place opposite. Until she looked up and met an astonished stare. It was Paul Winn.
Sally felt herself turning the colour of a boiled lobster. Paul glanced pointedly at the large portion of ham, the pair of fried eggs, on Sally's plate. In unison, as if obeying a hidden and invisible conductor, they began to laugh.
Paul stopped first. "Sorry. I couldn't help it. Never saw anything so comical in my life." He pointed an accusing finger. "Did you or did you not say you weren't hungry?"
She nodded. "But the ham smelt so good." "And the cooking here is first-rate. I often drop in.',
He ordered ham and eggs too.
"Enjoy your first visit to Court?"
"It was wonderful," she said, quite sincerely. He looked at her quizzically. "I believe the girl means it. Sorry if I sound surprised."
"I'm surprised myself. But when you showed me that man—so forlorn, so lost—so depending on you, I saw what it was all for. I mean," she shrugged, quite unable to explain the revelation she'd seen in the office. "All that typing—it isn't just so many words a minute, like a typing exam. It's real."
"My respect for you is growing, child. Wait till you've spent a morning in the Magistrates' Court. That's the place for reality. But wait a minute—you had a date. Have I spoilt it?"
She was touched that he should remember. "It spoilt itself. I rather think I've been jilted."
He brought his attention gravely to bear on this statement. "You mean, because of working late to-night?"
She thought a minute, then said honestly, "No. To-night merely gave him the excuse he wanted."
He clicked his tongue. "Tch! Tch! Miss March, do you love this unspeakable lout?"
She had never met a man like this before. Within ten minutes of their meeting he asked her a direct question like that—seriously and with an obvious desire to know the answer. It never occurred to her that she could prevaricate or shuffle. He drew the truth out of her as a magnet draws steel.
"Well—yes, I do. I don't know how I " She
could not get any further with that sentence. There was a sudden, unexpected lump in her throat, and she had to blink hard. She started again. "My family don't know about my going out with him, because they'd say I was too young for him. He's thirty."
"Sure that's the reason? I mean, you're not secretly ashamed of him—or anything?"
She glowed with sudden enthusiasm. "Oh, no! Max is quite charming. Well-educated, prosperous " She gave him a mischievous smile. "All the things families approve. He's not a rascal, if that's what you mean."
"I see." He nodded, as if
listing facts for later use. "A charmer. Thirty—or so he says. And you are—?"
"Twenty-two."
"And extremely pretty, if I may say so, in a detached sort of way. Merely as evidence, you understand. Do you want him back?"
"I'd be delighted. But I won't run after him. I despise myself because he almost makes me."
"Good girl! My advice to you is to run as hard as possible in the opposite direction. Man's a hunter, therefore he likes to hunt. It ruins his day if the prey gives itself up."
Sally had always thought there was nothing more pitiable, more foolish, than for a girl to break her heart over a man who did not care for her. But now she knew how it felt. Foolish as it might be, her heart ached—and ached. But pitiable she would not be; at least she possessed that much pride. So she lifted her chin proudly. "This prey won't give itself up."
"Stout work. Then, you see, your dignity and self-respect are salvaged out of the wreck, and you can pick yourself up and start again." He spoke so sincerely, so matter-of-factly, that his words were far removed from sympathetic platitudes or preaching.
"I can't think why you should be so kind as to take such an interest in the stupid affairs of a virtual stranger."
He gave her a smiling little glance. "You're not a stranger. I know the top of your head quite well, though it's always bent so demurely over the typewrite when I pass through the office. And I do know how you feel. I rather think I've been jilted too."
She gave him a startled look, and, for the first time, thought of him as an ordinary man and not as a legend. She noticed that under the strongly marked eyebrows his eyes were dark blue, kind and penetrating. That his hair waved strongly in spite of being so short and severely brushed; that although
his chin was square and determined, his mouth could be curiously tender. As it was now.
"I'm very sorry," she said gently. "I hope—I hope things turn out well for you in the end."
He shook his head. "Brenda is jealous of my profession. She complains that I think more of house-breakers and pick-pockets than I do of her—which is absurd." He grinned with sudden boyishness. "Admittedly, I know some shady characters, but I don't love them. I only want to keep them out of jail if they're not guilty, and if that means travelling round to different courts or sitting up half the night looking for flaws in the prosecution's case—well," he shrugged, "that's my job. But Brenda is young and very lovely. She likes to be taken out, to show off her pretty clothes. She finds me a dull job. Just as well, perhaps. Marriage and my job wouldn't agree."
"Most solicitors marry."
"Of course they do. But with Hille so old, and my father an invalid, I have to be a sort of dog's-body in the firm and do the running around. If one of Hille's pet clients gets picked up drunk in charge at a remote police station in the middle of the night, Hille turns over on his cosy interior-sprung, and sends me. And if I've taken Brenda to a dance all dressed up, she hates it. I don't blame her."
It occurred to Sally that he was talking to himself more than to her. The unknown Brenda had hurt him deeply, and he had reached a point where he must talk or explode. To-morrow, perhaps, he'd regret having confided so much in her, but she would show him she could be trusted not to take advantage. To-morrow, she would be once more a head bent demurely over a typewriter. She didn't want him to talk so much that he felt a fool in the morning. So she composed her face into a sympathetic listening expression, but said nothing. He seemed to have said all he wanted to say, so they polished off the remainder of the ham and eggs in a silence which, oddly, grew more and more sympathetic instead of
becoming awkward. Then Paul began to talk in a matter-of-fact tone about the more humorous side of his work, until Sally had to laugh over the story of some incredible escapade. After a while, over an excellent tart of tender spring rhubarb, she found she was extracting a good deal of pleasure and amusement out of this unexpected meal in the odd, bright little restaurant.
It was with a sigh of regret that she said, "I must go now. Mummy may start worrying. Thank you for a delightful meal. I hope I didn't bore you with my tale of woe."
"You haven't bored me at all. Far from it. I was wallowing in self-pity, but even a shipwreck isn't so bad when you know there is someone else in the same boat. You and I ought to be celebrating our freedom."
She said, slightly bitter, "Celebrating?"
He smiled. "Even if we are adrift in a boat on the open sea, we haven't gone down with the ship. That's surely something to celebrate?"
He insisted on driving her home in spite of her protests that she could catch a bus which passed quite near her home. "But first," he explained, "I have to drop in at the office to pick up some files. You don't mind waiting? I shan't be a minute."
It seemed strange to wait outside the familiar office, to be cosily inside Mr. Paul's big car. The narrow street was quite dark now, deserted except for an alley cat whose eyes shone momentarily green as a ground-floor office window sprang into a yellow square of light.
The interior of the car was suddenly illuminated. Sally turned round, surprised, to find out what had caused this phenomenon, and saw that a vehicle had drawn up behind Paul's. As the headlights were extinguished, and she was no longer blinded, she could see it was another car with a long, luxurious bonnet. A girl stepped out, plainly visible in the glare from the unshaded office window. She wore a full-length evening dress under a fur coat casually
slung over her shoulders, her head was bare. Even in the poor light, Sally could see that she was exquisite.
She had only a moment to wonder what such a vision was doing in this shabby quarter so late, before the car door was wrenched open and the vision looked in. "Paul, darling —I---- The light voice died away in astonishment. Before Sally knew what was happening, the girl reached forward to the fascia and pressed a button which lit the interior. The two girls stared at one another, Sally blinking slightly in the sudden dazzle.
"Mr. Winn is in the office. He called to fetch some files," she said rather lamely. It was so obvious that this lovely, honey-coloured creature was not going to believe her.
The office window darkened. "He's coming now," Sally went on.
The girl had a clear, insolent voice. "I won't wait. Sorry to have disturbed you." She turned away, and encountered Paul face to face.
"Benda! What are you doing here?"
"I came because you said you'd be working late, and I was sorry for what I'd said. I wanted to make up our quarrel, Paul. But I see I was right about your late nights, after all."
"My dear girl—for goodness' sake---"
She interrupted him. "I'm sorry I came. It's horrible to suspect things, Paul, but it's even worse to be sure." She turned towards her car, but Paul grabbed her shoulders.
"Benda, listen to reason. It was work which kept me. Do you think I'd have stayed away from your party for any other reason?"
"On the evidence, Paul, that's a very stupid question. I'm sorry I looked in your car. I saw a figure there, and thought it was you. Please don't try to explain."
She wrenched herself away and ran towards her car, got in and slammed the door. The engine started immediately.
Paul stood staring after her for a few minutes, then he slid into the driving seat, and groped for a cigarette. In the lighter's flare, his face was hard as granite.
"Sorry about that, Miss March," he said, when his cigarette was well alight. "Oh—sorry. Do you smoke?"
"No, thank you. I—I'm sorry, too, Mr. Paul. I didn't have time to explain who I am."
He blew out a stream of smoke. "Wouldn't have helped. A jealous nature always finds something on which to feed. That's its tragedy. It wasn't your fault. Forget it."
He asked for her address, and drove her home in silence. The passing lights flickered and died, flickered and died on a countenance as hard, as impassive, as that of a Red Indian chief.
CHAPTER TWO
NEXT morning Sally saw practically nothing of Mr. Paul. He blew into the office like a
brisk east wind, crammed papers into his brief-case and was off. No "good morning". Not even a thank-you for the stack of exquisite typing Sally laid on his desk.
After all, why should he thank me? she asked herself sensibly. I only did my job. But I would like to know what happens to the little Pole.
It had been comparatively easy, last night, under the stimulus of Paul's grave interest and attention, to throw up her chin in a gallant gesture and to say, in effect, a fig for Max. This morning the glow had gone. She felt nothing but a sense of aching loss. What was the use of telling herself he was not the man for her—that he was too old, sophisticated, casual? That he wasn't a domestic type, and would never be tied down to the sort of home she wanted—with a garden, a dog, children? Her pride was in the dust, and she knew that if he telephoned now she would run to him, too eager for his gay, good-humoured company; his clever flattery which made her feel lovelier, more poised, more witty and amusing.
When she had made three mistakes and had been spoken to sharply by Mr. Ware, she pulled herself together and put Max out of her mind. Unluckily for her work, he was immediately succeeded by Paul Winn. How awful, how embarrassing, it had been when Brenda Somebody discovered her in the car! And how humiliating, for obviously Brenda put the worst possible construction on the situation!
Mr. Ware called her in. He pushed the spectacles up on his forehead, and, tilting back his chair, looked at her searchingly.
"Miss March, are you in love?"
She blushed furiously. "No—oh no, Mr. Ware. Why?"
"When a young girl, hitherto reliable, makes a series of extremely stupid mistakes in one day, she is either ill or in love. Now you are obviously not ill."
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ware."
The old eyes studied her shrewdly. "Trouble at home?"
"No." Her voice firmed resolutely. "I'm afraid it's plain carelessness. It won't happen- again."
"It had better not. You've been a good worker so far, so I won't say any more. Just a word in season. I hope you'll take it to heart. You'll have to re-type all these."
Her heart sank. Those dreary abstracts. She was collecting them from his desk when Mr. Paul hurried in.
