"Would you?" Stephen looked surprised.
"Yes. After all, he is—has been very good to me."
"Met you at the station on a rather whimsical im.pulse of good nature," Stephen said dubiously. "It's not so much, is It?"
"It's a good indication of how he regards other people's problems," Thea said, feeling that was as far as she could go, in view of the fact that Stephen knew only a small fraction of the truth.
"Um-hm," Stephen agreed. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps Lin would be a good friend at a pinch."
I'm sure of it," Thea declared. But I'm eoually sure that I won't need anything like that," she added with a laugh. "And now tell me some more about the American trip. It's simply thrilhng. Is it nearly sure? And when would you be going? '
Stephen laughed at her enthusiasm.
"Well, it is practically sure, if I'm willing to take it on. And I am, after this conversation with you," he said, with a quick, smiling glance at her. "I think we should leave in about a month's time."
In spite of all her reassurances to the contrary, Thea did uffer a small stab of regret when this definite term was put
to her happy times with Stephen, but she concealed that nobly.
"Will your mother close the house? Oh! what will happen toDarry?'*
Stephen laughed again.
"We're keeping the house open for him, of course."
"You're not!''
"Well, perhaps not solely on Darry's account," Stephen conceded. "It's old Emma's home, too, you know, and anyway, it doesn't do the place any good to have it shut up so long. So Emma will stay on and Darry will still be king.'
"Oh, I'm glad. I'll go down and see the poor pet sometime, if I may."
"Of course you may. Go down weekends and have a break whenever you like. Mother will be only too glad, and old Emma will be very pleased to have company and look after you,'' Stephen declared.
"That's lovely." Thea's spirits were finding their usual high level again. "It will keep me from missing you both too much."
"Then it's settled,'' Stephen said.
And settled it was—as was everything else to do with the departure of Stephen and his mother, which seemed to Thea to come upon her with incredible speed.
Mrs. Dorley stayed in London for a few days from time to time, and had Thea with her as much as possible when she was shopping and making her various arrangements. And then on most evenings Stephen took them both to a theater, or to some special place for dinner, or they dined quiedy at the hotel and had a pleasant evening together.
On their last evening, Lindsay Varlon took out his sister and nephew to dinner and—though she felt she might well have expected to be excluded from a purely family party like this—Thea, too, was invited.
It was the first time she had seen Lindsay Varlon since he had driven her back from Surrey on that Sunday evening nearly three months ago, and her first pleased impression was: He's just as distinguished and interesting looking as I remembered. I wish I saw more of him.
He greeted her with a kindly smile but with no more than the casual interest of an acquaintance, and Thea hardly knew whether to be relieved that so little sense of obligation
was imposed upon her, or to be disappointed and slightly piqued that she caused him so little interest.
During dinner the conversation ranged quite naturally over the Dorleys* coming journey and the people they were going to see.
"The only thing that worries me is the fact of having to leave Thea on her own," Mrs. Dorley said presently.
"But she's still with Geraldine, isn't sher" Varlon looked surprised—even slightly alarmed, Thea thought.
Oh, yes, of course. But what sort of support is Geraldine, my dear Lin? What I want to say is that I nope you will keep an eye on the child.''
"But will 'the child' permit me to keep an eye on her?" Varlon asked, with a slight smile. "I find her new air of independence most charming, but it also makes me feel quite superfluous in the role of general guide and protector."
"Oh, Mr. Varlon, I don't look so independent!" Thea cried protestingly. "And you needn't talk as though I scare you because we all know that it takes much more than me to scare you."
Varlon's handsome smiling eyes rested on her for a moment.
"I don't mean there is too much independence, Thea. In fact, the proportion is altogether delightful," he assured her. "It is only that I wouldn't dare presume to look after you unless you give me categorical permission to do so."
The slightly teasing note that crept into his tone told Thea Quite well that he was remembering their conversation in tne car, and her stumbling explanation that his championship might do her more harm than good.
^he flushed a little, but she smiled, too, as she looked down and said, "I give you permission to do so."
"Thank you, my child." He held out his hand to her and they solemnly clasped hands on the bargain.
"Well, that's settled," Mrs. Dorley said, with an air of amused relief "I don't suggest Thea will need any kind of supervision. But I want her to know that she can come to you in an emergency."
"She can always do that," Varlon replied gravely.
And then Stephen asked wasn't it time they went and danced, before the floor got too crowded?
So Thea and Stephen went away to dance and left Mrs. Dorley and her brother to discuss the arrangements she was making to see one or two people for him while she was in the States.
After that the rest of the evening went very quickly, and it seemed to Thea that, with all her five weeks preparation, goodbyes were being said before she was really jjrepared for them.
They were made a little easier for her by the fact that Varlon took Stephen and Mrs. Dorley to their hotel first and then drove Thea the further quartermile to Geraldine's apartment. There was therefore nothing in the way of ceremonious farewells. Mrs. Dorley merely kissed Thea with added warmth as though she were saying good night to her after a specially nice evening.
Then while she said goodbye to her brother, Stephen unself-consciously put his arms around Thea and kissed her warmly, too.
"Don't fret, darling—" he had never called her darling before "—but don't find some much nicer chap to go out with once a week before I come back, will you?"
"There isn't a nicer chap than you," Thea told him with a laugh, but she blinked her lashes rather hard, because she suddenly felt very much like crying. "Goodbye and have a wonderful time.'
"Coming in front with me, Thea?" Varlon asked at that moment. And with a final tight squeeze of Stephen's hand, she got back into the car.
Sentimental goodbyes didn 't seem to be much in Lindsay Varlon's line, because he drove off immediately, hardly giving Thea time for a last hasty wave of her hand.
For a few moments there was silence, and then Thea said in a rather small voice, "I'm going to miss them terribly.'*
"Yes, I suppose you are, he agreed. And then, quite abruptly, "It isn't my business, of course, but are you and Stephen rather specially attached?"
Thea was considerably taken aback, not able to decide whether that curt tone might be taken to indicate that the oflficious uncle was looking after his artless nephew, or that the question was of purely academic interest.
"I... we like each other very much, of course. We're excellent friends but—nothing more."
*'I see. Thank you for not resenting the question."
**I did, rather, '* Thea said.
"I'm sorry.*' He smiled as he drew up the car outside the entrance to the apartment.
'*Why did you want to know, anyway?" she asked with sudden curiosity.
''Oh—" he shrugged slightly "—one likes to have these situations clear. What are you doing next Sunday?"
"Next Sunday?"
"Yes. Would you care to come out with me, or have you something else on hand?"
Thea flushed with a pleasure that was astonishingly acute.
"I'm not doing anything. And—and I'd love to come, of course."
"Very
well. Then I'll call for you round about half-past eleven. We'll have lunch somewhere up the river and—oh, decide what we want to do after that.''
"Thank you. That sounds lovely."
"Not at all," he told her with the faintly mocking smile. "Thank you for trusting yourself with the big bad wolf"
"Oh, I never said-"
"No, I know you didn't. Run along now, and I'll see you on Sunday," he said with a laugh.
So Thea " ran along," and when she got in and found that Geraldine was not yet home and only Denham was there, she exclaimed on the impulse of the moment, "Oh, Denham, I'm going out with Mr. Varlon on Sunday. Isn't it lovely?" because she knew Denham shared her weakness for Lindsay Varlon.
"Yes, Miss Thea—very nice." Denham looked at her in that speculative way she had. "I shouldn't say anything about It to Miss Marven if I was you, though.''
Thea paused in the act of pouring herself some lemonade and turned to stare at Denham.
"Wouldn't you, Denham? Why not? Don't you think she would—approve?''
"I think she wouldn't be too pleased that it wasn't her instead of you," Denham replied knowingly.
"Oh." Thea finished pouring out her lemonade and sipped it thoughtfully. "Do you mean that Geraldine rather—rather regards Mr. Varlon as her property?"
"It wouldn't be for me to say how she regards him, Miss Thea. But if I was to say anything ....'*
"Yes, Denham?" Thea spoke rather anxiously.
"It'd be that Miss Mar/en regards most gentlemen as her property. Unless, of course, they're young like Mr. Stephen and not the style she fancies."
"Oh,"Thea said again. And then .... "Do you think Mr. Varlon is very much the style she fancies? Denham, I know I shouldn't gossip and ask questions, but is there—was there anything between those two?"
"Well, Miss Thea—" Denham smoothed her dress doubtfully and folded in her thin, pale lips, as though she might thereby repress any real indiscretion "—there's no saymg she didn't run after him. In her own way, you understand."
"And he?" Thea found it was his attitude that most breathlessly interested her.
"It's difficult to say. You can never quite tell when Mr. Varlon is serious and when he's laughing at himself or other people. But she's had checks signed by him. Miss Thea, I do know that. And checks usually mean only one thing," Denham added from the depths of her vast experience.
Checks, Denham?" Thea found that she hated the idea so sharply that it hurt. And then, suddenly remembering the arrangement that he must have with Geraldine concerning herself, she cried, "But when did you see them? Since I came here?"
"I couldn't say for sure. Miss Thea. No, probably before that, because you 've been here only a few weeks.''
"Oh, I haven't Denham! I've been here about three months. Do think! Was it before then? It's—it's rather important."
"I can't see that it is, Miss Thea." Denham was evidently sorry she had said so much and a little affronted by Thea's eager efforts to pin her down. "And I couldn't say I'm sure. Anyway, you'd best forget about it. It's not my business and, if you'll forgive my saying so, it's not yours either. Miss Thea."
"No, I know it's not. But—but there could be an explanation "A dry smile from Denham expressed admirably
what she thought of such a naive notion. "Yes, there could! Oh, well, I can't go into it now, but don't jump to conclu-
sions, Denham. Anyway, I daresay you're right about it being best not to mention this Sunday outing to Geraldine. Though what I'm to do on the day itself I don't quite know. He's calling for me."
"Then you'd better be down in the entrance hall. Miss Thea," Denham said with decision.
"Y-yes. All right, I will," Thea agreed, wishing it didn't all seem rather like a stage intrigue. That was the worst of people like Geraldine and Lindsay Varlon. You always found yourself involved in theatrical situations where they were concerned, thought Thea rather crossly.
By Sunday morning, however, any possible discontent that Thea could have felt with the situation had vanished. She woke to find the sunshine of a perfect April day streaming into the room, and jumped out of bed immediately, full of excited anticipation.
Fortunately the beauty of the day did not seem to have the same effect on Geraldine, who woke late, breakfasted in bed and, to Thea's inexpressible relief, had put in no appearance by twenty minutes past eleven. If Geraldine had been up and around when she left the apartment, Thea hardly saw how she could have gone to the lengths of concealing the fact that it was Lindsay Varlon with whom she was going out.
"I'm off now, Denham." She put her head into the kitchen for a goodbye smile. "Isn't it a perfect day?"
"Perfect, Miss Thea." Denham smiled back indulgently. "You have a good time and don't worry about anything I said the other evening."
"All right." Thea laughed, gave Denham a final wave and ran quickly through the little hall and out of the apartment. As she closed the front door behind her, she heard Geraldine open her bedroom door and call "Denham! " rather peevishly.
Only just in time! she thought, with a faintly guilty but relieved little laugh. And then the elevator silently bore her downward to safety—if one could regard Lindsay Varlon as representing that desirable state of affairs.
He had not yet arrived, and Thea spent an agitating minute or two wondering if Geraldine had really come out of her room already dressed to go out, and would presently step out of the elevator and find her waiting there.
And then, as the cracked bell of the nearby church tinkled out the half hour, his car drew up at the door.
"Oh, hello!" Thea ran out to him.
"Why, hello." He paused in the act of getting out of the car to give her an amused glance. "I haven't been keeping you waiting, have I?"
*'0h, no." Thea dismissed the last anxious minutes with this airy untruth. "I was ready and I just thought I'd come down to save time."
"I see." He held open the door for her with such a quizzical smile that she felt sure he saw exactly—both what she had done and her motive for doing it.
Oh, well, it didn't matter. They were off now, with no untoward interruption from Geraldine, and the day was lovely and the car was perfect, and he looked frightfully handsome—and she was happy.
Presently Thea began to hum to herself as they spun along, and he glanced at her with a smile and said, "Happy?"
"Yes, awfully happy. It's a wonderful day, isn't it?"
"Yes, wonderful, Thea. You make me feel quite youthful and carefree when you hum like that.''
"I don't see why you need someone to make you feel youthful and carefree. You aren't exactly grandfatherly, you know," Thea told him gaily—even a little pertly, because she felt very much at ease with him today.
He laughed and said dryly, "There are a few grey hairs, nevertheless."
She looked with interest at his thick dark hair, usually so smooth but now slightly ruffled by the breeze from the open window.
"Hardly any. And what there are only help to make you look distinguished. Anyone can see you're someone important and famous."
"Oh, thank you. But all the same—" and he quoted mischievously:
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of
morning. Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.
''Don't be silly. You needn't talk about your 'evening' yet. I'm tempted to ask you flatly how old you are. But instead I'll be a nice polite girl and ask where your quotation comes from."
"The answer is thirty-five, Thea. And the words come from one of the most beautiful of all Irish songs, 'I Saw from the Beach.' "
"Why, thirty-five's no age!" Thea declared. "In a man," she added.
"Charming child. Why haven't I taken you out before? You are so good for one s amourpropre,*' he said with his rather lazy smile.
"I expect," Thea said, thoughtfully, "that you take out lots of girls—well, more likely, women—who say things that are good for your amourpropre.'''
"Wrong," he assured her. "I have
to say things that are
good for theirs,"
Thea laughed. "Well, you can have a rest for today. You don't need to say anything to tickle my vanity. I can bear it if you omit that part of the day's pleasure."
"Why, don't you want to hear that your hair looks wonderful, your charming gaiety is infectious, and that I consider myself a lucky man to be taking you out for the day?"
Thea looked at him speculatively.
"Do you say that sort of thing to lots of women?" she inquired. Whereas he laughed more than she had seen him do so far, and said, "You have the oddest idea of me, Thea. Do I look as though I spend my time saying that sort of thing to all and sundry?'
"Not to all. But rather to sundry," Thea said, and grinned.
"You little beast," he retorted pleasantly. "Well, at the risk of disappointing you, I'm not at all in the habit of saying that sort of thing to anyone. That's not my technique."
"Oh. Then you didn't mean it when you said it to me, I suppose."
"On the contrary, I did."
"Then I wish you'd say it again, because I discounted it so thoroughly before that I didn't really notice what it was," Thea told him.
^ J 2 Meant for Each Other
''I will not say it again," he assured her. "You don't deserve it."
"All right," Thea said equably, and leaned back contentedly again in her seat.
He gave her an extremely amused glance, and they drove on in silence. But it was a companionable and pleasant silence.
After a while he said, '^I hope you're getting hungry. We've nearly reached the place where we are going to have lunch."
Thea sat up and began to say that yes, she was hungry; but instead she broke off to cry out, "Oh, how lovely!" as the car swept over the brow of the hill and began a gradual descent to the river, which curved round at the foot of the hill in a shining arc. Trees clustered on either side, sometimes drooping right over to touch the water.
He smiled at her pleasure and a few minutes later drew up outside a riverside restaurant where he appeared to be extremely well known.
The man in charge of the parking lot greeted him as an old friend; the manager, looking very suave and elegant in the entrance hall, came over to give him a special welcome; and the head waiter immediately led the way to a table on the terrace overlooking the river.
Harlequin Omnibus: Take Me with You, Choose What You Will, Meant for Each Other Page 49
