stay.
You're not going early because of me, I hope? Caroline said.
Not at all. You wouldn't drive anyone away, I assure you.
Thanks!
I've got a book that might interest you, Miss Quincey said. I think you ought to read it.
Who's it by?
Well, our books are always issued anonymously, but I do happen to know who wrote this one. It's by Brother Macardle of Manchester. I've met him. He's a brilliant man — a biochemist.
She was searching through the bookcase as she spoke. She said:
I… can't see it. It must be upstairs. I won't be a moment.
Sorme followed her out of the room, and took his raincoat from the hat stand. He went back into the sitting- room to put it on. Caroline looked at him, chewing. She said: I'm sorry you've got to go.
Maybe we can meet again?
I'd love to. I'd like you to tell me about your book.
He belted the raincoat.
When are you free?
Almost any evening — and just occasionally in the afternoon.
He was being deliberately casual, yet listening hard for the sound of Miss
Quincey on the stairs, afraid she might come back too soon. He asked:
Are you free tomorrow evening?
I… think so. If I'm not, where can I contact you?
He gave her his phone number, and she wrote it in a notebook which she took from her handbag. He asked:
Where shall I see you?
Where do you live?
Camden Town.
Miss Quincey's step sounded on the stairs. She said quickly:
Six o'clock at Leicester Square Underground?
That's fine.
She was returning the notebook to her handbag as Miss Quincey came into the room. He felt absurdly tense and embarrassed. Caroline, looking completely unhurried, bit into the sandwich. Miss Quincey held out a green- bound book to him.
Have you got a copy of the Bible?
Er… yes, of course.
It's not of course. Most people haven't.
No?
No. I soon found that out when I did some door-to-door work with Brother Robbins. We visited thirty houses in one road in Putney, and only two had a Bible.
He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his raincoat. It was not large.
You'll find it marked in many places. It's one of the best books we've ever published, I think. It gives you everything we believe in a nutshell. If you intend to write about us, you ought to base it on that. But you'll need a Bible to refer to as well.
Thanks… Er… when shall I see you again?
In front of Caroline, he felt his phrasing was preposterously ill-chosen.
You ought to read that first. No, I don't really mean that. You're very welcome whether you've read it or not. Come any time. Not over the weekend though.
Later this week?
Yes… Not Wednesday or Friday, though, unless you want to attend a meeting. And Thursday I've got some people coming. You could come tomorrow if you wanted to.
Not tomorrow. I think I'm doing something.
Then it will have to be next Monday at the earliest. Will that be all right?
Yes, that's fine…
He turned at the door. Caroline was still eating.
Goodbye.
Bye-bye, Gerard.
He deliberately refrained from calling her 'Caroline', feeling a constraint in Miss Quincey's presence.
At the front door he said:
Look here, I feel rather guilty about this…
About what?
About coming here and eating your food. I don't want you to feel that… well, you know…
Oh nonsense. I know you don't. There's always food here whenever you want to come in. Don't feel guilty.
He said: Perhaps I might take you out for a meal one evening?
She smiled, shrugging, then suddenly met his eyes, and seemed to colour slightly.
She said briskly:
Well, we can talk about that.
He took her hand.
Goodnight.
Goodnight, Gerard.
To his surprise she took his hand in both hers, and squeezed it. He turned away quickly, and hurried down the drive. She called:
Can you see all right?
Yes, thank you.
The dark closed around him as the door clicked to.
CHAPTER FIVE
She yielded immediately, and with no sign of surprise. When he tried to press her backwards on to the settee, she pushed him away gently, saying: Not here. Someone might come. He asked: Where then? She smiled, and nodded towards the bedroom.
Before she was through the door, she had begun to pull her dress over her head. He slammed the door and locked it. He said happily:
My god, sweet, you've got a superb body.
Someone hit the door behind him, banging it hard. He was surprised; there had been no one in that room a moment before. She looked alarmed, and reached for her slip, which she had thrown on to the bed. The knock came again. He said:
Never mind that. Let's hurry before…
The knocking became more insistent, and he became aware of the voice shouting:
Telephone for you. The dream dissolved; he sat up dizzily in bed, and looked at his watch. He shouted:
OK. Thanks very much.
Carlotte's steps retreated down the stairs. He pulled on his dressing-gown, thrusting his feet into slippers. The dream became an unreality, and was forgotten before he had had time to dwell on it.
The front door stood wide open; he closed it before picking up the phone. The operator's voice asked: Mr Sorme?
Speaking.
A personal call for you from Switzerland.
He said: Blimey, again?
