The Other Linding Girl Read Free

slightly pointed chin and unexpected laughter-hollows in the cheeks, still looked friendly rather than enigmatic; and the wellspaced, darkly lashed blue eyes were enquiring rather than secretly knowledgeable.
    It was not, Rachel thought ruefully, the sort of face which made men exclaim, “Who on earth is that? I must know her.” More the kind which made children ask one the time and old ladies request one to look after their luggage as they fumbled for a penny.
    Still, once experience had come her way—varied and exciting—there was no knowing how her appearance might subtly change and her character mature. And, on this intriguing thought, Rachel settled down once more to enjoy her journey.
    It was late afternoon by the time she arrived at Euston and, taking a taxi, she drove to Uncle Everard’s tall, handsome house near Wigmore Street. Here she was admitted to a beautifully proportioned and richly furnished hall, by a maid who looked a little as though she might have stepped out of a play.
    “My lady is not yet home,” the maid explained. “But Sir Everard is in the drawing-room and will see you at once.” Then she led the way upstairs to the first floor, and showed Rachel into an elegant, high-ceilinged room, with a respectful,
    “Miss Linding, sir.”
    “Rachel, my dear! I’m delighted to see you.”
    Uncle Everard—a trifle greyer, but even handsomer than she remembered him—came forward to greet her, with all the charm which, along with his almost magical skill, had put him at the top of his profession.
    “Dear me, what good-looking girls Robert does produce.” Sir Everard looked at Rachel with a shrewd but approving smile. “I remember, your elder sister was a real beauty, even some years ago, and the younger one was a charming child. I didn’t recall you so clearly as the others, but—”
    “No one ever does, Uncle,” said Rachel, without offence and with a touch of genuine humour. “I’m the rather ordinary one of the three.”
    “My dear, I should never dream of calling you ordinary!” exclaimed her uncle, who indeed would not, because he had long ago discovered that nothing pleases people better than to be considered rather special. “You have, for one thing, a delightful speaking voice—all too rare nowadays—and a charmingly shaped face. Very good bone-structure—very good indeed,” he added, with such authority that Rachel wondered for a moment if he were regarding her as a welcome niece or a good anatomical specimen.
    In any case, she found herself very much at home with him, and had hardly finished her brief but lively account of the family, when the door opened and into the room came a small girl, with straight dark hair, bright, intelligent black eyes and an amusingly tip-tilted nose.
    She was what the Americans mean by “cute”, but not at all pretty, and she said, with great composure,
    “Hello. You’re my cousin Rachel, aren’t you?”
    “Yes. And you must be Paula,” replied Rachel, suddenly remembering the name scrawled at the bottom of one of the
    unfortunately chosen Christmas cards.
    She smiled and held out her hand. And when the child came across to her, Rachel—who came of a comfortably demonstrative family—put an arm round her and kissed her, which seemed to surprise Paula somewhat.
    However, the advance evidently met with approval, because she said at once, “Can I take Rachel to her room?” It is possible that Sir Everard—who was also enjoying the new toy—might have refused. But at that moment the telephone rang and, picking up the receiver, he said impatiently, ‘Yes, yes—run along, both of you.” And Rachel had the distinct impression that both she and Paula ceased to exist.
    However, she was used to a household where the demands of the telephone took precedence over almost everything else, and she got up immediately and accompanied her little cousin out of the room and upstairs to the next floor where, it seemed, a very pleasant bed-