Dorothy Eden Read Free Page B

out again. But this time, to her surprise, it clung to hers with surprising strength. It was cold and a little damp. It was, strangely enough, like the hand of a person who was afraid…
    Mrs. Peebles had to be told, of course. Apart from her grudging but fairly accurate delivery of telephone messages, she liked to know what Kate was up to. Since all Kate’s visitors had to come through the front door and negotiate the stairs to the basement they had to endure the sharp surveillance of Mrs. Peebles, and this was another source of interest for that lady who was frank and uninhibited in her comments.
    “That young man last night, Miss Tempest. Bit of a weed, wasn’t he? You can do better than that,” or, “She’d be a flighty piece, that Miss Edwards. Pity the man who gets her.”
    Of William, surprisingly enough, she approved, which was rather boring. Kate felt that a few waspish comments from Mrs. Peebles would have made her fly hotly to William’s defence, and perhaps have made her fall in love with him. As it was, they disagreed about almost everything, from the latest play to the colour of William’s tie. William was slow in his movements, and untidy and forgetful, and appallingly frank about either Kate’s work, her appearance, or her behaviour. He treated her, she complained bitterly, as if they had been married for years. But somehow they stuck together. Or rubbed along. And the odd, weedy or more flamboyant types of whom Mrs. Peebles disapproved did not take her out a second time. Perhaps it was this quality of outspokenness that drew Mrs. Peebles and William together. Whatever it was, Kate suddenly felt enormously relieved at the thought of escaping, for a brief time, from both of them.
    Mrs. Peebles was sharp, small and spry. At the sound of the front door closing she appeared, like a mouse from the wainscoting, ready to dart back into her hole the moment she had seen all that was necessary.
    “Oh, it’s you, Miss Tempest. Only one message. From Mr. Howard. He said to tell you to keep tomorrow night free because he had tickets for the Old Vic.”
    “He’ll have to take someone else,” Kate said pleasantly. “I’ll be halfway to Rome.”
    “Rome! Whatever do you want to go there for?”
    “Just a job. I’ll be away about three days, so if anyone rings—”
    “Oh, yes, scribbling away at that telephone when I should be doing my work. Then you’d better ring Mr. Howard.”
    “Later,” said Kate, going towards the stairs.
    “He’ll be around.”
    “Not if I know it. I have to pack and have an early night.”
    “Rome!” muttered Mrs. Peebles. “What are they sending you there for? Turning you into a spy?”
    “Something like that,” Kate said cheerfully. “Just my cup of tea, don’t you agree?”
    The early night was not possible, for, as predicted by Mrs. Peebles, William did come around. He was a tall young man and heavily built. Kate’s one armchair sagged perilously beneath his weight, and although she had a reasonable amount of floor space, his comfortably sprawled legs formed a constant hurdle as she tried to do her packing and cope with his barrage of questions.
    “It’s fishy,” he said.
    “Don’t be absurd. What’s fishy about bringing a seven-year-old child to England?”
    “Why don’t they let you fly?”
    “I’ve told you. Because Francesca loves trains and wants to go up the Eiffel Tower. It’s a special treat.”
    “She sounds like a spoilt brat.”
    “She probably is, but for twenty guineas pin-money I’d travel third-class to Greece and back. And they’re giving me time in Rome to rest. I’ll be dashing madly about, of course. I want to get a good face for my new illustration.”
    “For the hero? An Italian?” William said sceptically. William edited a small, highly literary, topical magazine himself, and was often irritatingly facetious about Kate’s endeavours in the romantic field.
    “No, for the villain. Someone madly wicked and irresistible. I’ll