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had been wearing the new pink dress, he would have behaved differently? Men, her mother had always said, were susceptible to pink. Britannia sighed and slept.

      CHAPTER THREE

      IT SEEMED THAT Britannia was never to discover the professor’s taste regarding pink-clad females, but that was a small price to pay in the face of the frequency of their meetings. For she met him again the very next afternoon. Joan, laid low with a headache, had decided to stay indoors and Mevrouw Veske had an appointment with her dentist. Britannia, restless and urged by her friend to take advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant day, donned slacks, pulled on two sweaters, tied a scarf under her chin and went to fetch her bicycle. There was miles of open country around her; she chose a right-hand turn at the crossroads and pedalled down it, feeling a good deal more cheerful while she plotted ways and means—most of them quite unsuitable—of meeting the professor again. An unnecessary exercise as it turned out, for seeing a picturesque pond among the trees on the other side of the road she decided to cross over and get a better view. She was almost there when the professor’s magnificent car swept round the curve ahead and stopped within a foot or so of her.

      She jumped off her machine, quite undisturbed by the sight of his furious face thrust through the open window, and his biting: ‘This is becoming quite ridiculous—you’re not fit to ride a bicycle!’

      Britannia, a girl of common sense, nonetheless realised that her fairy godmother, kind Fate or just plain good luck were giving her another chance. The sight of the professor glowering from the opened window of his stupendous car sent a most pleasing sensation through her, although her pretty face remained calm. She said: ‘Hullo,’ and got no reply; the professor was swallowing rage. When he did at length speak, his voice was cold and nasty.

      ‘You were on the wrong side of the road. I might have killed you.’

      She stooped to pick up her bicycle, observing that it had a puncture in the back tyre which seemed of no great importance at the moment; it was much more important to get him into a good mood. She said reasonably: ‘I’m a foreigner, so you have to make allowances, you know. You aren’t very nice about it; after all, we have met before.’

      The blue eyes studied her in undisguised rage. ‘Indeed we have, but I see no reason to express pleasure at seeing you again. I advise you to travel on the correct side of the road and use the cycle path where there is one.’ He added morosely: ‘You’re not fit to be out on your own.’

      Britannia took his criticism in good part. ‘You can come with me if you like,’ she invited. ‘I daresay some healthy exercise would do you good; there’s nothing like fresh air to blow away bad temper.’ She smiled at him kindly and waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t she went on: ‘Oh, well, perhaps you can’t cycle any more…’

      The professor’s voice, usually deep and measured, took on an unexpected volume. ‘You are an atrocious girl. How you got here and why is no concern of mine, but I will not be plagued by you.’

      She looked meek. ‘I don’t mean to plague you. My back tyre’s punctured.’

      ‘Mend it or walk home!’ he bellowed, and left her standing there.

      ‘He drives much too fast,’ remarked Britannia to the quiet road. ‘And how do I mend a puncture with nothing?’

      She turned her machine and started to walk, doing sums as she went. She had been cycling for almost an hour—not hurrying—so she must have come at least ten miles. She would be late for lunch, she might even be late for tea. She had passed through a village some way back, but as she had no money and no one there would know or understand her, it wouldn’t be of much use to stop there. She had been walking for twenty minutes or so when an elderly man on a bicycle passed her, stopped, and with the minimum of speech and fuss, got out his repair kit. He had almost finished the job when the professor, coming the other way, slid his car to a halt beside them.

      Britannia gave him a warm smile. ‘There, I knew you weren’t as nasty as you pretended you were!’

      He surveyed her unsmilingly. ‘Get in,’ he said evenly. ‘The bike can be fetched later.’

      She shook her head at him. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that; this gentleman stopped to help me and I wouldn’t be so ungrateful as to leave him now.’ She shook her pretty head at him again. ‘You really must get out of the habit of expecting people to do what you want whether they wish to or not. This kind man hasn’t shouted at me, nor did he leave me to mend a puncture all alone in a strange land, which I couldn’t have done anyway because I had nothing to do it with.’

      She paused to see the effect of this speech. The professor’s splendid features appeared to be carved in disapproving stone, his eyes pale and hard. She sighed. ‘Oh, well…it was kind of you to come back. Thank you.’ She had no chance to say more, for he had gone, driving much too fast again.

      She very nearly told Joan about it when she got back, but really there didn’t seem much point; beyond meeting the professor again, nothing had happened; he still disliked her, indeed, even more so, she thought. There was the possibility that she might not see him again. She paused in the brushing of her mane of hair to reflect that whether he liked her or no, they had met again—she could have stayed her whole two weeks in Holland and not seen hair nor hide of him; she tended to regard that as some sort of sign. Before she got into bed she sat down and wrote to her mother and father; after all, she had told them about him in the first place, they had a right to know that her sudden whim to go to Holland had borne fruit. Rather sour fruit, she conceded.

      But not as sour as all that; she was on her way down to breakfast the following morning when Berthe came running upstairs to meet her. She pointed downwards, giggling, and then pointed at Britannia, who instantly thought of all the awful things which could have happened to either Mijnheer or Mevrouw Veske and rushed past her and down the stairs at a great rate.

      ‘I had no idea that you were so eager to see me again,’ said the professor. ‘Should I be flattered?’

      He was standing in the hall, in his car coat with his gloves in his hand, and gave her the distinct impression that he was impatient to be gone.

      ‘No,’ said Britannia, ‘you shouldn’t—I thought something awful had happened to the Veskes. What are you doing here? Is someone ill?’

      The professor’s lip twitched faintly. ‘Cut down to size,’ he murmured. ‘I called to see you.’

      Britannia’s incurable optimism bubbled up under her angora sweater, but she checked it with a firm metaphorical hand and asked: ‘Why?’

      ‘I owe you an apology for my behaviour yesterday. I offer it now.’

      ‘Well, that’s handsome of you, Professor, I’ll accept it. I expect you were worrying about something and felt irritable.’

      ‘You concern yourself a little too much about my feelings, Miss Smith. Perhaps it would be better if you were to attend to your own affairs.’

      She had annoyed him again. The optimism burst its bubble and she said quietly: ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for coming—I expect you want to go…’

      He gave her a long look and went to the door without a word, but before he could open it she had nipped across the hall to stand beside him. ‘I’m only here for a fortnight,’ she told him, and then, unable to resist the question: ‘Do you really live near here?’

      ‘Yes. Goodbye, Britannia.’

      So that was that. She went into breakfast and made lighthearted rejoinders to the questions fired at her, and presently they all began talking about their plans for the day and the professor was forgotten.

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