was wasted, just one of these tiresome moments in an otherwise important march of events. Yet the warning was clear as the chime of a bell in his head, and only then he saw something else move in her eyes, something dangerous and exciting like the shape of a leopard hunting in the shadows.
A challenge, perhaps, a dare, and suddenly he knew clearly that no daughter of Sean Courtney would be reared to such natural arrogance and rudeness. There was a reason, some design in her attitude.
He felt a lightness of mind, that kind of special madness which had driven away fear of consequence so often in moments of peril or desperate enterprise, and he grinned at her. He did not have to force the grin, it was natural and devilish and challenging. Certainly, Miss Courtney. Of course I'll get them, just as soon as you say please. There was an audible communal gasp from the girls around her, and they stilled with awed delight, their eyes darting to Storm's face and then back to Mark's. Say please to the nice man, Stormy. Irene used the patronizing voice for instructing young children, and there was a delighted burst of giggles from the others.
For one unholy instant something burned in the girl's dark blue eyes, something fierce that was not anger. Mark recognized the importance of that flash; although he did not truly know the exact emotion it betrayed, yet he knew it might affect him. Then it was gone and in its place was true unfeigned anger. How dare you! Storm's voice was low and quivering, but her lips were suddenly frosty white as the blood drained away. The anger was too swift, too strong for the occasion, out of all proportion to the mild exchange, and Mark felt a reckless excitement that he had been able to reach her so deeply. He kept the grin mocking and taunting. Hit him, darling, Irene teased, and for a moment Mark thought she really might. You keep your silly mouth shut, Irene Leuchars. Oh la la! Irene gloated. Temper! Mark turned casually away, and opened the driver's door of the Cadillac. Where are you going! Back to town. He started the engine, and looked out of the window at her. There was no doubt now that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Anger had rouged her cheeks, and the fine dark hair at her temples was still damp from her play on the courts. It was plastered against the smooth skin in tiny curls. That is my car! They'll send somebody else up with it, Miss Courtney, I'm used to dealing with ladies.
Again the wondering gasp and burst of giggles. Oh, he's a darling! Irene clapped her hands in applause, but Storm ignored her. My father will have you fired. Yes, he probably will, he agreed. Mark thought about that solemnly for a moment, then he nodded and he let out the clutch. He looked back in the mirror as he took the first bend in the driveway and they were still standing in a group staring after him in their white dresses, like a group of marble statues. Nymphs Startled by Satyr, was a fitting title, he thought, and laughed with the reckless mood still on him. Jesus, Dicky Lancome whispered, clutching his brow with horror. What made you do it? He shook his head slowly, wonderingly. She was damned rude. Dicky dropped his hands and stared at him aghast. She was rude to you. Oh my God, I don't think I can stand much more. Don't you realize that if she was rude to you, you should be grateful? Don't you know that there are thousands of peasants like us who go through their entire lives without being insulted by Miss Storm Courtney? I was not going to take that, Mark explained reasonably, but Dicky cut in. Look, old bean, I've taught you all I know, and you still know nothing. Not only do you take it, but if Miss Courtney expresses a desire to kick your fat stupid arse, the correct reply is 'Certainly, ma'am, but first let me don fresh bags lest I soil your pretty foot! ' Mark laughed, the reckless mood still there but fading, and Dicky's expression became more lugubrious. That's right, have yourself a good laugh. Do you know what happened? and before Mark could answer he went on, A summons from on high, the ultimate, the Chairman of the Board himself. So the boss and I dash across town fear, trepidation, cautious optimism, are we to be fired, promoted, congratulated on the month's sale figures? And there is the Board, the full Board mind you, looking like a convention of undertakers who have just been informed of the discovery of Pasteur's vaccine Dicky stopped, the memory was too painful, and he sighed heavily. You didn't really tell her to say 'please', did you?
Mark nodded. You didn't really tell her she was not a lady? Not directly, Mark protested. But I did imply it. Dicky Lancome tried to wipe his face off with one hand, starting at the hairline and drawing the palm of his hand down slowly to his chin. I've got to fire you, you know that, don't you?
Mark nodded again. Look, said Dicky. I tried, Mark, I really did. I showed themyour sales figures, I told them you were young, impulsive, I made a speech. Thank you, Dicky. At the end of the speech, they almost fired me also. You shouldn't have stuck your neck out for meAnyone else, you could have picked on anyone else, old chap, you could have punched the mayor, sent abusive letters to the king, but why in the name of all holy things did you have to pick on a Courtney? You know something, Dicky? and it was Dicky's turn silently to shake his head. I loved it, I loved every moment of it. Dicky groaned aloud, as he took out his silver cigarette case and offered it to Mark. They lit their cigarettes, and smoked in silence for a few moments.
So I am fired, then? Mark asked at last. That's what I have been trying to tell you for the last ten minutes, Dicky agreed.
Mark began to clear out the drawers in his desk, then stopped and asked impulsively. Did the General, did General Courtney make the demand for my head? I have no idea, old chap, but sure as hell it was made.
Mark wanted to believe that it had not been the General.
It was too mean a gesture from such a big man. He could imagine the General bursting into the showroom, brandishing; a horse-whip.
The man who could take such revenge for a small flash of spirit, might be capable of other things, like killing an old man for his land.
The thought sickened Mark, and he tried to thrust it aside. Well, then, I suppose I'd better be getting along. I'm sorry, old bean. Dicky stood up and offered his hand, then looked embarrassed. You all right for the filthy lucre? I could let you have a tenner to tide you over. Thanks, Dicky, but I'll be all right. look, Dicky blurted out impulsively. Give it a month or so, time for the dust to settle, and then if you haven't got yourself fixed, come and see me. I'll try and sneak you in again through the back door, even if we have to write you up on the paysheet under an assumed name. Goodbye, Dick, and thanks for everything. I really mean that. I'm going to miss you, old chap. Keep your head down below the parapet in future, won't you? The pawn shop was in Soldiers Way, almost directly opposite the railway station. The front room was small and overcrowded with a vast array of valuables, semi-valuables and rubbish left here by the needy over the years.
There was a melancholy about the racks of yellowing wedding dresses, in the dusty glass cases of old wedding rings, engraved watches, cigarette cases and silver drinking flasks, all given in love or respect, each with its own sad story. Two pounds, said the pawnbroker, after a single glance at the suit. It's only three months old, Mark said softly. And I paid fifteen. The man shrugged and the steel-framed spectacles slid down his nose. Two pounds, he repeated, and pushed the spectacles up with a thumb that looked grey and dusty as his stock. All right, and what about this? He opened the small blue case, and showed the bronze disc nestled in a nest of silk, pinned by its gay little ribbon of white and red and blue. The Military Medal for gallantry displayed by non-commissioned officers and other ranks. We get a lot of those, not much call for them. The man pursed thin lips. Twelve pounds ten, he said. How long do you keep them before you sell them? Mark asked, suddenly reluctant to part with the scrap of metal and silk. We keep em a year. The last ten days of constant search for employment had depleted Mark's resources of cash and courage.
All right, he agreed.
The pawnbroker wrote the ticket, while Mark wandered into the back reaches of the shop. He found a bundle of old military haver-sacks and selected one; then there was a rack of rifles, most of them ancient Martinis and
