seven.) 'How do you feel?' she inquired.
'Don't ask me. You wouldn't want to hear about it. I want you to go to Rosemary ...'
'I've been to Rosemary.'
'You have?' He felt stunned.
'It's ten A.M. my lad,' said Ethel. 'And I got off that plane in the middle of the night and the milk-train or whatever I took landed me here at five a.m. I've met your landlord. I've seen your house. I've had a bath in it. And I got in to see Rosemary because she is in a semiprivate room, whereas all kinds of indecent things were going on in this ward, or so they implied.' Ethel glanced at the man with the tube in his nostril and did not flinch.
Mr. Gibson gave out a weak 'Oh,' feeling somewhat flattened by her energy.
'Woke up your Mr. Townsend, I guess. Must say he was very amiable about it. When I identified myself, he let me in. Nothing to it.'
'Paul's a good fellow . . .'
'Very charming,' said Ethel dryly, 'one of those dream-boats, eh? And a rich widower, too? My! Quite a little house you live in, Ken.'
'Isn't it?'
'I put my things in what I judged to be Rosemary's room.' Her wise glance understood everything.
'Yes,' he said feebly. All at once, he could not imagine brisk, sensible, energetic Ethel in the little house, at all. He said impatiently—because she gave the effect of a gale blowing a sudden gust that disrupted a certain neatness and order of his thoughts— 'Tell me, Ethel. How is Rosemary?'
'Not a scratch on her,' said Ethel promptly. 'She's a little unhappy. So sorry it happened. Worried about you. And so forth. I understand she was doing the driving.'
'Yes, it's her car . . .' he began.
'Which car is pretty much of a mess, so Mr. Town-send tells me. I can't quite visualize . . .' Ethel frowned. 'Usually it is the driver who gets the worst of it. Seems the other car hit yours right smack on the side where you were sitting.'
'Other car . . .' Mr. Gibson winced.
'Two men in it. Neither one hurt, except superficially. You seem to have got the worst of it. Only a few bones broken, Ken? Sounds to me you are lucky to be alive to tell the tale.'
'I can't tell the tale,' he said testily. 'I can't remember a thing about it.'
'Just as well,' said Ethel. 'Spares you some interviews. It's going to be a kind of impasse, I'm afraid. Nobody will dare sue anybody.'
'Sue?' He felt bewildered.
'You see, they were on the left in the fog, where they shouldn't have been. But Rosemary turned left, which was wrong of her. And the police smelled alcohol on both your breaths.'
'A drop of brandy . . .' murmured Mr. Gibson sadly.
'The cops have literal minds.'
'Rosemary.' Mr. Gibson did not go on, discovering that all he wanted was to be saying her name.
'She's a nice girl, Ken,' said his sister.
'Yes,' he said relaxing.
Ethel grinned at him. Her eyes had such a wise look.
kind and indulgent. 'I gather that you have been up to some good deeds.'
'Well . . .'
'She couldn't say enough, Rosemary couldn't. According to her she was broke and ill and down and out. I suppose this appealed to you.'
Ethel was teasing but Mr. Gibson felt dead .serious. 'She was badly run-down. That's exactly why I wanted you . . .'
'Drastic, wasn't it?' Ethel cocked one brow.
'What was?'
'To marry her.'
'It may seem so . . .' he said stiffly, on the defensive.
'She's on the young side, isn't she?' his sister said. 'Let's see. You are fifty-five. Well, she thinks you are a saint on earth—and perhaps you are.' She grinned affectionately.
'I haven't,' said Mr. Gibson indignantly, 'the slightest intention of being a saint on earth or anywhere else —'
Ethel laughed at him. 'Soft-hearted old Ken. I needn't have worried. You'd never take up with a blonde, now, would you? It would be a poor thing, a waif or a stray . . .'
'I'd hardly say . . .' he began.
'She's obsessed with gratitude,' said Ethel, wearing now a faint frown. 'Devoted to you. Of course . . .' she resettled her weight, 'as I gather, she took care of her father for some years?'
