Read Online The Other Linding Girl by Mary Burchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Burchell
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this window and that window, revelling ia the beauty and strangeness of merchandise for which they will never have any use.
But Rachel—as she discovered that afternoon—was a window-shopper of passionate intensity. Hardly bothering to notice where she was going, she followed the magic trail along Wigmore Street, across Oxford Street and finally down Bond Street. And it was while she was gazing, entranced, into an antique shop that a voice said amusedly beside her,
“Which are you taking—the samovar or the Chelsea figures?”
“Nigel!” Her delight was instantaneous and unconcealed. “Where did you spring from?”
“A nearby taxi, if you mean that literally, I happened to catch sight of you, and decided to get out here.”
“Oh, then you’re on your way somewhere?”
“Not so urgently that I can’t give you tea first. Unless you’ve already had it?”
“No, I haven’t. I hadn’t even noticed the time.” Rachel glanced vaguely at her watch. “But, now you mention it, I’d love, some tea.”
“Come along, then—” he took her lightly by the arm—“and well find somewhere.”
She could not possibly, have said why, but all at once the whole atmosphere of the afternoon appeared to have changed. It was not that the sun was any brighter, or the air any clearer. It was just that everything seemed to be charged with an added degree of tingling excitement and significance. Perhaps that was the effect that Nigel Seton had upon one. Or perhaps it was simply that even window-shopping—and certainly tea—is more attractive in company than alone.
They found an agreeably secluded corner table in a pleasant tea-room. And, once they had given their orders he said,
“I hear that Hester is going on well?”
“Oh, you do know that?”
‘Yes, indeed. Telephoning is permitted, you know.” He grinned at her across the table, but she could not find that funny, and, when he saw her suddenly sobered expression, he patted her hand as it lay on the table and exclaimed, “Don’t distress yourself again.”
“I’m not going to.” She managed to smile. “At least, you needn’t be afraid I’ll start crying again. I’m sorry about being such an idiot last night— this morning, I mean. But I was overtired and—”
“Don’t apologise. It was the one nice thing in an otherwise appalling evening,” he declared. “But tell me—what have you been doing with yourself this morning?” ‘This morning? I was working. That’s what I came for.”
“Of course, my real and earnest one. I’d forgotten. Honest toil and regular hours. That’s your recipe for life, isn’t it?” He looked faintly mocking.
“It has its place,” Rachel retorted a trifle drily. “We can’t all be erratic geniuses. Which brings us to—what did you do this morning?”
“I confess with shame that I slept late,” he said, without any clear signs of shame in his manner, however. “And then I lunched importantly.”
“How do you mean—‘you lunched importantly’? Another erratic genius?” Rachel enquired.
“No, no. A possible wealthy backer. Someone who might make a very substantial grant towards my line of research.”
“Oh? But are you dependent on that sort of thing?” She looked rather shocked. “I mean, don’t you and your team—for I suppose you have a team ofworkers—get any sort of grant?”
“I have a team of workers, and we get a very meagre grant,” he replied, categorically but without any rancor. “But most of the money we have to find ourselves.”
“But isn't that rather a shame?”
“As you care to look at it. Research requires an act of faith every day, and acts of faith aren’t very popular with committees and government departments. Few men put money into something they’re not sure of. Even someone else’s money,” he added cynically.
“So you’re largely dependent on private backers?”
‘Perhaps the word ‘patron’ or ‘benefactor’ would be more graceful.”
“Well,
But Rachel—as she discovered that afternoon—was a window-shopper of passionate intensity. Hardly bothering to notice where she was going, she followed the magic trail along Wigmore Street, across Oxford Street and finally down Bond Street. And it was while she was gazing, entranced, into an antique shop that a voice said amusedly beside her,
“Which are you taking—the samovar or the Chelsea figures?”
“Nigel!” Her delight was instantaneous and unconcealed. “Where did you spring from?”
“A nearby taxi, if you mean that literally, I happened to catch sight of you, and decided to get out here.”
“Oh, then you’re on your way somewhere?”
“Not so urgently that I can’t give you tea first. Unless you’ve already had it?”
“No, I haven’t. I hadn’t even noticed the time.” Rachel glanced vaguely at her watch. “But, now you mention it, I’d love, some tea.”
“Come along, then—” he took her lightly by the arm—“and well find somewhere.”
She could not possibly, have said why, but all at once the whole atmosphere of the afternoon appeared to have changed. It was not that the sun was any brighter, or the air any clearer. It was just that everything seemed to be charged with an added degree of tingling excitement and significance. Perhaps that was the effect that Nigel Seton had upon one. Or perhaps it was simply that even window-shopping—and certainly tea—is more attractive in company than alone.
They found an agreeably secluded corner table in a pleasant tea-room. And, once they had given their orders he said,
“I hear that Hester is going on well?”
“Oh, you do know that?”
‘Yes, indeed. Telephoning is permitted, you know.” He grinned at her across the table, but she could not find that funny, and, when he saw her suddenly sobered expression, he patted her hand as it lay on the table and exclaimed, “Don’t distress yourself again.”
“I’m not going to.” She managed to smile. “At least, you needn’t be afraid I’ll start crying again. I’m sorry about being such an idiot last night— this morning, I mean. But I was overtired and—”
“Don’t apologise. It was the one nice thing in an otherwise appalling evening,” he declared. “But tell me—what have you been doing with yourself this morning?” ‘This morning? I was working. That’s what I came for.”
“Of course, my real and earnest one. I’d forgotten. Honest toil and regular hours. That’s your recipe for life, isn’t it?” He looked faintly mocking.
“It has its place,” Rachel retorted a trifle drily. “We can’t all be erratic geniuses. Which brings us to—what did you do this morning?”
“I confess with shame that I slept late,” he said, without any clear signs of shame in his manner, however. “And then I lunched importantly.”
“How do you mean—‘you lunched importantly’? Another erratic genius?” Rachel enquired.
“No, no. A possible wealthy backer. Someone who might make a very substantial grant towards my line of research.”
“Oh? But are you dependent on that sort of thing?” She looked rather shocked. “I mean, don’t you and your team—for I suppose you have a team ofworkers—get any sort of grant?”
“I have a team of workers, and we get a very meagre grant,” he replied, categorically but without any rancor. “But most of the money we have to find ourselves.”
“But isn't that rather a shame?”
“As you care to look at it. Research requires an act of faith every day, and acts of faith aren’t very popular with committees and government departments. Few men put money into something they’re not sure of. Even someone else’s money,” he added cynically.
“So you’re largely dependent on private backers?”
‘Perhaps the word ‘patron’ or ‘benefactor’ would be more graceful.”
“Well,
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