The Unsuspected

so startled. The whole thing had caught her in the throat She'd finally answered in the extravagant language she never naturally used, simply because it meant too much; she couldn't answer him otherwise. She'd turned her back and cried, 'Darling, of course, I'm just about out of my mind with happiness! Aren't you?'

He'd said, 'Well, don't worry,' in that flat blunt voice that wasn't like Oliver at all. And when, in surprise, she'd turned around, he'd been gone. Gone.

Nor had she, even then, understood anything. How dumb! How could she have been so dumb? Stupid. Blind. Dumb. Did she crack wise? Oh, no, not she! Not dumb-bunny Mathilda, the ugly duckling with all the money.

Grandy'd had to take her aside into his study that night, with only one dim light, she remembered. Sitting beside her in the shadows, he'd told her in his gentlest voice, 'Tyl, darling, I think this belated honesty of Oliver's is lucky for you. Oh, I realize that you

won't see beyond the surface humiliation and it's true. Oliver ought to have told you more directly. Poor duckling. But this superficial blow to your pride is nothing, nothing. You must believe me. Someday you will know that this is right. Someday you will know that

Oliver, however clumsily he's done it, hasn't really done you wrong.'

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But Oliver was lost and there was a whole structure of dream and plan that tumbled down. And she had to learn all over again to be alone. And why did it have to be Althea? Damn her. Oh, damn her.

All her remembered life, Althea had been there with that power to take away. Never had Tyl had a glow, a hint of success, of happiness, that Althea hadn't somehow been able to dim it or put it out. Poor penniless Althea, who was so beautiful. Tyl ground her teeth.

'Nor must you blame Althea,' Grandy'd said. 'You must be charitable, my dear. She was in love.'

“I know,' she'd answered with a proud tolerance, biting back the cry, But so was I! But so was I! And still, in April, her heart was crying. But so was I!

'Won't it be wonderful to see all our friends?' sighed Mrs. Stevens. 'Just think; any minute. Won't you come around to the other side, Miss Frazier, dear?'

Mathilda said desperately, 'Won't you please excuse me?'

Chapter Four

 Mathilda's luggage didn't keep her long. She seemed hardly to have begun to remember how to stand up on land, when they were finished with her. She was through customs, standing in another lightning storm of cameras, and a tall man had come up to her with a protective air.

Blinded, Mathilda couldn't quite see his face, but she heard a strange, kind voice saying close to her ear, 'Grandy let me come.' Her eyes filled with tears of relief. She felt a gush of emotion, a sense of coming home.

The red-haired newsman saw her falter and begin to cry; saw the tall man, with a kind swoop of his whole body that seemed to surround her and guard her, guide her quickly through the groups of people and put her into a cab, very neatly, very fast. The red-

haired man ran his tongue around an upper molar. He might have been sneering.

Mathilda stumbled into the taxi. It took her a minute to find a handkerchief. The man beside her, with an odd effect of pure and scientific curiosity said, 'Why is it they call Althea the beautiful one?'

'Because she is, of course,' said Mathilda in honest surprise. Now she could see his face. It wasn't a face she had ever seen before. He was dark—dark hair, weathered skin. His eyes were dark, with heavy lashes. He had the kind of nose that suggests good humor,

not in the least chiseled or sharp, but boyish looking. His chin was firm. His face was thin, with no puffs of flesh. It was a formed face, the face of a man who had been, somehow, tested, although he was young. His eyebrows went up at an angle toward

his temples. There was something gay about the way they flew when he smiled.

He spoke again before she had time to form a question. 'Grandy would have come down. He wanted to. But he thought it would only complicate the publicity part.'

Into her mind flitted the memory of the red- haired man and what he'd said. But the thought flitted out again. 'Where are we going?'

'To a hotel. I have to pick up my stuff. And I want very much to talk to you.'

He did have a nice smile. But it came over Mathilda, just the same, that all this was rather strange. Grandy's mere name had been enough for that moment on the pier. But now she drew a little away, shrinking back into her own corner of the taxicab.

'I want to talk to you quite seriously,' he was continuing. She began to feel alarmed. He said lightly, 'I'm afraid your Mr. Grandison has been up to some plain and fancy dirty work.'

Mathilda took a deep breath. Her green eyes opened wider.

The man said, 'I don't know where to start I suppose it began with Jane—but of course you don't know Jane.'

'I don't know you,' said Mathilda coldly. 'Will you please ask the man to take us to the station? I would like to go to Mr. Grandison's house by the first train.'

He looked as if he hadn't quite taken in what she said. He sat still. If he'd been in a movie, you'd have assumed that the film had stuck. His eyes remained interested and alert. He made no move to redirect the cab driver.

'I haven't the faintest idea who you are,' said Mathilda angrily, 'and you may as well know that I will not listen to your opinions of Mr. Grandison. Since I've never seen you before in my life, I am perfectly sure you can't know Mr. Grandison anything like as well

as I do. And you ought to know better than to think you can run him down to me.'

He said nothing. Something about his pose collapsed just a little as if a little air had gone out of a balloon. There was a small crumpling.

Mathilda was mad as hops. This was no newsman. She could let fly. She could be as vivid and as colorful with her emotion as she liked. She said, 'Grandy has taken care of me since I was nine. He's been my father and my mother and my uncles and my aunts. He's taught me all I know and given me just about everything I've ever had of any value. All the things you can't buy. He's given me my home. He made it home for me. He's picked my schools. He's cared. He's spent thought and trouble on me. He's my family. And not because we have the same blood, either, but because he wanted to be, because he loved me and I love him. He is, in my considered opinion, the best and wisest man in the world, and anything he chooses to do is all right with me, and always will be. And if you

won't tell the cab driver where to go, I will. Or I'll scream. Choose one!”

 She saw, through her anger, with satisfaction that the man had really collapsed now. At least he had fallen back into his corner and was sitting there somberly, and it was as if he were locked inside a shell of very thick silence. He was saying nothing in seventeen

different languages. He was stopped, gagged. He'd shut his mouth. Well, she thought, he'd better.

'Driver,' said Mathilda.

The man got some words out painfully. 'No, don't,' he said. 'We are to telephone.'

'There are telephones everywhere,' she said coldly. 'Particularly in the Grand Central Station.'

'Yes, but my—' He pulled himself together in order to speak at all. 'Grandy sent me,' he said. 'Nobody's going to hurt you, you know. You don't really think so, do you?'

'Certainly not,' said Mathilda with airy contempt.

'No train for an hour and a half,' he said. He seemed rather indifferent suddenly. He looked out of the cab window, away from her. 'If you like, I'll leave you after we telephone. You'll have to wait somewhere.'

Mathilda sat back. She was still seething. She tried to remember exactly what he had said that had set off so much anger. But the phrase didn't come back to her accurately. She began to feel that she'd been too vehement. She had made a show of herself. She under-stood, now, that it had all been part of the home-coming emotion somehow.

His withdrawn silence smacked of reproach. After all, if Grandy had sent him— She cast about for some remark, something in the way of small talk, to indicate that the storm was over. She said chattily, 'I hope you realize that I don't even know your name.'

He did a strange thing. He put his hand up and covered his eyes, and sat very still and tense. She wondered if he had heard. 'I don't know your name,' she repeated.

'My name is Francis Howard,' he said stiffly. He took his hand down and went back to looking out of the cab window. She could see his ear, the line of his cheek, not his eyes.

Howard. Mathilda's mind took what she at first thought was a capricious swoop, back to the interview with