Fear by Night Read Free Page A

quickly, her voice might shake, and Charles might think—when really and truly it was only the dry bread, and walking the soles off her shoes looking for a job.
    Charles smiled, and she would rather he ha frowned.
    â€œIt’s Bewley that’s up for sale, not me.”
    â€œShe might be an enchanting heiress,” said Ann.
    Charles agreed in the most reasonable way.
    â€œShe might.”
    Ann smiled. The pie had arrived. It was a lovely helping. Pastry was very, very filling. There was jelly. There were truffles. There were peas, and surprisingly young potatoes. She tried to keep her mind upon food, and how lovely it was not to be hungry any more. If Charles thought he could work on her feelings with something on the lines of “Bewley’s mine to sell, but I’m yours,” well, he’d better think again. A horrid dangerous little traitor thought kept bobbing up at the back of her mind. For twopence it would start signalling to Charles, the little beast. She boxed its ears, speared a truffle, gazed at it with dreamy affection, and said,
    â€œYou’d much better look for an heiress.”
    â€œThanks,” said Charles, still in that reasonable tone.
    Ann found another truffle.
    â€œSeriously,” she said, “what’s wrong with an heiress?”
    â€œI don’t want one, thank you.”
    â€œBewley does if you don’t. I suppose you’ll fall in love with somebody some day. Why shouldn’t you fall in love with a girl who’s got some money? She might be a heart-smiter. There’s nothing the least heart-smiting about being poor, you know. It’s very deteriorating, because you have to keep on thinking about money all the time—horrid sordid things like, ‘Will it run to a bus fare?’ or ‘Can I have butter to-day?’ Everyone ought to have so much money that they never have to think about it at all. You’ve no idea how nice I should be if I had a thousand a year.”
    â€œIt would take more than a thousand a year to save Bewley.”
    â€œIsn’t there any way of making it pay?”
    â€œNot without capital.”
    â€œCan’t you let instead of selling?”
    â€œWhat’s the good if I can’t ever go back? Besides, everything’s going to rack and ruin—cottages, fences, everything. It’s a hopeless show.”
    Ann said, “I’m sorry.”
    Charles went on talking about Bewley. Perhaps he found it a relief. Perhaps it was only because he had always found it astonishingly easy to talk to Ann.
    Ann for her part found it quite easy to listen. She was feeling soothed and peaceful. She finished her pie and ate pêche Melba in a fond, lingering manner. Charles had a nice voice. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to sell Bewley after all. If he married an heiress, she wouldn’t be able to lunch with him any more. It had been a frightfully good lunch. She began to feel quite certain that she would get the Westley Gardens job. She needn’t hurry, because her appointment wasn’t until a quarter past three. It was going to be all right.
    She smiled at Charles and said,
    â€œYou’ve got a positive network of aunts and cousins and people. Would you like to find me a job?”
    Charles was slightly taken aback. He had been telling her about the death duties—three lots in ten years, enough to smash anyone. It took him a moment to switch over to the question of a job.
    â€œDo you want one?”
    â€œDarling Charles! Do I? As a matter of fa I hope I’m getting one this afternoon. Someone sent me a paper with a marked advertisement.”
    â€œWho did?”
    â€œI don’t know. Mary Duquesne, I expect. She’s just gone off to India.”
    â€œWhat’s the job?”
    â€œSecretary to an old lady, I should think—Westley Gardens. I’m going to be interviewed this afternoon. But in case it falls through, if you have got an aunt up your