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      ‘Your patient? Was the operation successful?’ She went even pinker; perhaps she shouldn’t have asked—it wasn’t any of her business.

      ‘Entirely, thank you—a good start to my day.’ Thank heaven he hadn’t sounded annoyed, thought Mary Jane.

      The nurse led Margaret away then, and Mary Jane sat and looked at the glossy magazines scattered around her. The models in them looked as though they should still be at school and were so thin that she longed to feed them up on good wholesome food. Some of the clothes were lovely but since she was never likely to wear any of them she took care not to want them too much.

      I’m the wrong shape, she told herself, unaware that despite her thinness she had a pretty, curvy figure and nice legs, concealed by the tweed suit.

      The door opened and Sir Thomas showed Margaret back into the waiting-room, and it was quite obvious that Margaret was in a dreadful temper whereas he presented an impeturbable manner. He didn’t look at Mary Jane but shook Margaret’s reluctant hand, wished her goodbye with cool courtesy and went back into his consulting-room.

      Margaret took no notice of the nurse’s polite goodbyes but flounced down to the street. ‘I told you he was no good,’ she hissed. ‘The man’s a fool, he says there is nothing wrong with me.’ She gave a nasty little laugh. ‘I’m to take more exercise, if you please—walk for an hour, mind you—each day, make beds, work in the garden, be active. I have suffered for years with my back, I’m quite unable to do anything strenuous; if you knew the hours I spend lying on the chaise longue...’

      ‘Perhaps that’s why your back hurts,’ suggested Mary Jane matter-of-factly.

      ‘Don’t be stupid. You can drive me home and I shall tell Dr Fellowes exactly what I think of him and his specialist.’

      ‘He must know what he’s talking about,’ observed Mary Jane rashly, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t be a consultant, would he?’

      ‘What do you know about it, anyway?’ asked Margaret rudely. They had reached the hotel. ‘Get your bag and get someone to bring the car round. We’re leaving now.’

      It was a pleasant autumn day; the drive would have been agreeable too if only Margaret would have stopped talking. Luckily she didn’t need any answers, so Mary Jane was able to think her own thoughts.

      She wasn’t invited in when they arrived at the house. Mary Jane, to whom it had been home for happy years, hadn’t expected that anyway. ‘You can drive the car round to the garage before you go,’ said Margaret without so much as a thank-you.

      ‘Oliver can do that whenever he comes back; if you mind about it being parked outside you can drive it round yourself, Margaret; I’m going home.’ She added rather naughtily, ‘Don’t forget that hour’s walk each day.’

      ‘Come back,’ ordered Margaret. ‘How can you be so cruel, leaving me like this?’

      Mary Jane was already walking down the short drive. She called over her shoulder, ‘But you’re home, Margaret, and Sir Thomas said that there was nothing wrong with you...’

      ‘I’ll never speak to you again.’

      ‘Oh, good.’

      Mary Jane nipped smartly out of the open gate and down to the village. It was still mid-afternoon; she would open the tea-room in the hope that some passing motorist would fancy a pot of tea and scones. First she would have a meal; breakfast was hours ago and Margaret had refused to stop on the way. Beans on toast, she decided happily, opening her door.

      Brimble was waiting for her, she picked him up and tucked him under an arm while she opened windows, turned the sign round to ‘Open’ and put the kettle on.

      Brimble, content after a meal, sat beside her while she ate her own meal and then went upstairs to take a nap, leaving her to see that everything was ready for any customers who might come.

      They came presently, much to her pleased surprise; a hiking couple, a family party in a car which looked as though it might fall apart at any moment and a married couple who quarrelled quietly all the while they ate their tea. Mary Jane locked the door with a feeling of satisfaction, got her supper and started on preparations for the next day. While she made a batch of tea-cakes she thought about Sir Thomas.

      It was towards the end of October, on a chilly late afternoon, just as Mary Jane was thinking of closing since there was little likelihood of any customers, that Sir Thomas walked in. She had her back to the door, rearranging a shelf at the back of the tea-room and she had neither heard nor seen the Rolls come to a quiet halt outside.

      ‘Too late for tea?’ he asked and she spun round, clutching some plates.

      ‘No — yes, I was just going to close.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ He turned the sign round. ‘We can have a quiet talk without being disturbed.’

      ‘Talk? Whatever about? Is something wrong with Miss Potter? I do hope not.’

      ‘Miss Potter is making excellent progress...’

      ‘Then it’s Margaret—Mrs Seymour.’

      ‘Ah, yes, the lady you escorted. As far as I know she is leading her normal life, and why not? There is nothing wrong with her. I came to talk about you.’

      ‘Me. Why?’

      ‘Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you.’

      Sir Thomas sat down at one of the little tables and ate one of the scones on a plate there, and, since it seemed that he intended to stay there until he had had his tea, Mary Jane put the plates down and went to put on the kettle.

      By the time she came back with the teapot he had finished the scones and she fetched another plate, of fering them wordlessly.

      ‘You wanted to tell me something?’ she prompted.

      He sat back in the little cane chair so that it creaked alarmingly, his teacup in his hand. ‘Yes...’

      The thump on the door stopped him and when it was repeated he got up and unlocked it. The girl who came in flashed him a dazzling smile.

      ‘Hello, Mary Jane. I’m on my way to Cheltenham and it seemed a good idea to look you up.’ She pecked Mary Jane’s cheek and looked across at Sir Thomas. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

      ‘No,’ said Mary Jane rather more loudly than necessary. ‘This is Sir Thomas Latimer, an orthopaedic surgeon, he—that is, Margaret went to see him about her back and he has a patient in the village.’ She glanced at him, still standing by the door. ‘This is my sister, Felicity.’

      Felicity was looking quite beautiful, of course; she dressed in the height of fashion and somehow the clothes always looked right on her. She had tinted her hair, too, and her make-up was exquisite, making the most of her dark eyes and the perfect oval of her face. She smiled at Sir Thomas now as he came to shake her hand, smiling down at her, holding her hand just a little longer than he need, making some easy light-hearted remark which made Felicity laugh.

      Of course, he’s fallen for her, reflected Mary Jane; since Felicity had left home to join the glamorous world of fashion she had had a continuous flow of men at her beck and call and she couldn’t blame Sir Thomas; her sister was quite lovely. She said, ‘Felicity is a well-known model...’

      ‘I can’t imagine her being anything else,’ observed Sir Thomas gravely. ‘Are you staying here with Mary Jane?’

      ‘Lord, no. There’s only one bedroom and I’d be terribly in the way—she gets up at the crack of dawn to cook, don’t you, darling?’ She glanced around her. ‘Still making a living? Good. No, I’m booked in at the Queens at Cheltenham, I’m doing a dress show there tomorrow.’ She smiled at Sir Thomas. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to come? We could have dinner...?’

      ‘How delightful that would have been, although the dress show hardly appeals, but dinner with you would be another matter.’

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