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UNCLE TOM was in the surgery, sitting at his desk, searching for some paper or other and making the chaos there even more chaotic. Judith put down her basket and leaned comfortably over the back of a chair.

‘I delivered Mrs Turner’s bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t home, so I gave them to her husband.’

Her uncle glanced up briefly. ‘She’s not married, my dear.’

‘Then who’s the ill-mannered monster who roared at me? He needs a lesson in manners!’

Uncle Tom paused in his quest for whatever it was he wanted. ‘Charles Cresswell—an eminent historian, highly esteemed by his colleagues, with a first-class brain—at present writing a book on twelfth century England with special reference to this area. I daresay you disturbed him…’

Judith snorted. ‘He was insufferable! He ought to mind his manners!’

Her uncle peered at her over his spectacles. ‘These scholarly men, my dear, should be allowed a certain amount of licence.’

‘Why?’ snapped Judith.

‘You may indeed ask,’ observed a voice from the window behind her. ‘Tom, it’s a waste of breath whitewashing my black nature—I see I’m damned for ever in this young lady’s eyes. We haven’t been introduced, by the way.’

He left the window and came in through the door, a very long lean man with wide shoulders.

Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘My niece, Judith Golightly—Judith, this is Professor Charles Cresswell, eminent his…’

‘You told me,’ said Judith, and said, ‘How do you do?’ in a voice to freeze everything in the room solid.

Professor Cresswell lounged against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his elderly slacks. ‘I do very well, Miss Golightly. Of course my ego is badly damaged, but only briefly, I believe.’ He spoke with a careless indifference which annoyed her as much as his temper had. ‘Tom, if you’re visiting up at the Manor would you mind making my excuses for tennis this afternoon? The phone’s out of order…better still, I’ll ring from here if I may.’

He stretched out a hand and lifted the receiver and sat himself down on the edge of the doctor’s desk. He said softly: ‘Miss Golightly, you really shouldn’t slouch over that chair—you have a beautiful head and a splendid figure, and neither of them show to their best advantage if you will droop in that awkward manner.’ He took no notice of her quick breath but dialled a number and started a conversation with somebody at the other end. Judith most regrettably put her tongue out at the back of his head and flounced out of the room. She was seething enough to scorch the floor under her feet.

The Professor finished his conversation and replaced the receiver.

‘Married?’ he asked casually. ‘Engaged? Having a close relationship?—that’s what they say these days, don’t they? I seem to remember my granny calling it living in sin.’

Uncle Tom chuckled. ‘Times change, Charles, and no, Judith is heartwhole and fancy free at the moment. Which is not to say that she hasn’t been in and out of love, or fancied that she was, a great many times. She’s a handsome girl and she meets young men enough at that hospital of hers.’

‘And they fancy her, no doubt—let’s hope that some day soon, she’ll make one of them happy.’ He wandered to the door, then said with some concern:

‘She’s not here permanently, is she?’

‘No, no, two weeks only while Mrs Lockyer’s away. And since she’s not exactly taken to you, Charles, you needn’t worry about meeting her.’ The doctor’s tone was dry, but his eyes twinkled.

‘Thank God for that,’ declared the Professor in a relieved voice.

At lunchtime Judith made no mention of the Professor, indeed, she talked animatedly about everyone and everything else, and when her uncle assured her that he had no calls to make that afternoon, and would be home to answer the telephone, she told him that she would take the Fiat and drive over to Coniston and look round the village and visit Ruskin’s house there. “‘Mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery,’” she quoted rather vaguely. ‘I expect he was inspired by the view from his house.’

‘And what about Wordsworth—only a step across the street to the school he attended, my dear, as well you know, not to mention the cottage where he lodged.’

‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten him, Uncle—only I thought a little drive round might be nice.’

‘Of course, my dear. Why not go on to Rydal and take a look at Wordsworth’s house? Although perhaps you might save that for another day.’

‘Yes, I think I will.’ For some reason she wanted to be out of the village away from the chance of meeting Professor Cresswell. She hoped most devoutly that he wasn’t going to spoil her stay at Hawkshead, but if he really was writing a book perhaps he would stay in his house all day…

She set off after their lunch, going slowly, for it was but two miles to Coniston. Once there, she parked the car and set off for the John Ruskin Museum, then wandered off to inspect his grave in a corner of the churchyard, and then on to Brantwood to make a leisurely inspection of Ruskin’s house. And after that she had to decide whether to have a cup of tea or drive on to Tarn Hows. She decided on the later, and was rewarded by the magnificent views of the mountains when she got there. She stopped the car for ten minutes and sat back, enjoying it all, and then drove on again, past white Cragge Gardens and through Clappergate and so back to Hawkshead, just in nice time to get her uncle his tea.

Next week, she reflected as she boiled the kettle, she would go to Ferry Nab and across Lake Windermere to Bowness, and there was Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home and Kendal…all easy runs in the Fiat, and if she had the chance, she could go walking—there were paths to the top of the Old Man, towering over Coniston, as well as less strenuous walks through the Grizedale Forest. It was a wonderful place for a holiday; it was a pity that Professor Cresswell’s face, so heartily disliked, should interfere with her musings.

Not that she had much time to muse—Uncle Tom, called away to an emergency, left her to keep his evening patients happy until he returned, and by that time, there was little of the evening left.

The gentle routine of her days suited her very well; she was busy enough, but there was always time to stop and chat in the village shops, or spend half an hour with her uncle while he drank his coffee and checked his list of visits. It was several days later when he suggested that Judith might like to go to Kendal directly after breakfast. Mrs Lockyer went once a month, he explained, sometimes more often, and there were several things he wanted—books, a particular tobacco which the village didn’t stock, and his whisky was getting low. Nothing loath, Judith agreed happily, made sure that things would go smoothly while she was away, made a neat list of things to be bought, and went to her room to put on something other than the denim skirt and blouse she had been wearing. She hadn’t brought many clothes with her; she chose a silk shirtwaister in a pleasing shade of blue, brushed her hair smooth, found her handbag and went round the back to get the Fiat. She was in front of the house, with the engine running, waiting for Uncle Tom to give her some last-minute instructions about the books she was to fetch, when Professor Cresswell put his head through the window beside her.

Judith frowned. She hadn’t met him since their first encounter—well, church, of course, but one couldn’t count that. He had been in a pew on the other side of the aisle from Uncle Tom and her and she had been careful not to look at him, but all the same she had been very aware of him, for he sang all the hymns in a loud, unselfconscious baritone voice. And after church, by dint of engaging old Mr Osborne the chemist in a long-winded conversation she had been able to avoid him.

‘Going into Kendal?’ he wanted to know, without a good morning, and at her frosty nod. ‘Splendid, you can give me a lift.’

‘I’m going shopping—I’m not sure how long I shall be there.’

It was a pity that Uncle Tom should choose that moment to come out of the house, exclaiming cheerfully: ‘You’ll be back for lunch, won’t you, Judith? I want to go out to Lindsays’ farm early this afternoon.’ He glanced across at the Professor. ‘Giving Charles a lift? In that case bring him back for a sandwich.’ He beamed across the little car. ‘Judith makes a splendid beef sandwich.’

‘Thanks, Tom, but Mrs Turner’s doing something she calls giving the house a good do and I can’t possibly work until she subsides again.’ He opened the Fiat’s door and inserted himself into the seat beside Judith; the result was overcrowding but there was nothing to be done about that. She waved her uncle goodbye and drove off.

She had intended to go to Sawry and take the ferry to Bowness on the other side of Lake Windermere and then drive the eight or nine miles to Kendal. There would probably be delays on the ferry, although the season was only just beginning, but the alternative was a much longer drive round the head of the lake; besides, she particularly wanted to go that way and she saw no need to tell her unwanted passenger.

They drove in silence until they reached Sawry, and Judith instinctively slowed down, because it was here that Beatrix Potter had lived and she had promised herself a visit to Hill Top Farm before she went back home; if it had been anyone else with her, she would have had something to say about it, but the Professor hadn’t uttered a word, which, she told herself was exactly as she wanted it. They drove on to Far Sawry and joined the short queue for the ferry and he still had said nothing at all, and the eight miles on the other side were just as silent. They were actually in Kendal before he spoke.

‘Go through Highgate,’ he told her. ‘Into Stricklandgate—you can park the car there.’

And when she did, pulling up neatly in a half full car park, he opened his door and got out. ‘I’ll be here at twelve,’ he told her, and stalked off, leaving her speechless with rage. ‘Just as though I were the hired chauffeur!’ she muttered. ‘And why hasn’t he got a car of his own, for heaven’s sake?’

And he could have offered her a cup of coffee at the very least, not that she would have accepted it, but it would have given her pleasure to refuse him…

The town had changed since she had been there last, many years ago. The M6 had taken all the traffic nowadays, leaving the old town to its past glory. Judith pottered round the shops, carefully ticking off her list as she went, and when she came across a pleasant little café, went in and had coffee, and because she was feeling irritable, a squashy cream cake. She felt better after that and went in search of the books her uncle had ordered, did a little shopping for herself and made her way, deliberately late, to the car.

The Professor was leaning against the car, reading a book, outwardly at least in a good frame of mind. Judith said flippantly: ‘Finished your shopping?’ and opened the door and threw her parcels on to the back seat.

‘I never shop,’ he assured her blandly. ‘I wanted to visit Holy Trinity Church, there are some Megalithic stones in the vault I wanted to examine.’

Judith had no idea what Megalithic meant. ‘Oh, really?’ she said in a vague way, and got into the car.

‘You have no idea what I’m talking about,’ he sighed, ‘Not my period, of course, but I felt the need of a little light relief.’

Judith turned a splutter of laughter into a cough. ‘What from?’ she asked.

‘My studies.’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘Surely, Professor, you stopped studying some years ago?’

‘I’m a scholar, Miss Golightly, not a schoolboy. What an extraordinary name you have.’ He added gently: ‘And so unsuitable too.’

Judith clashed the gears. ‘Don’t ever ask me for a lift again!’ she told him through clenched teeth.

They had to wait quite some time for the ferry, and Judith, determined not to let the wretched man annoy her, made polite conversation as they sat there until she was brought to an indignant stop by his impatient: ‘Oh, Miss Golightly, do hold your tongue, I have a great deal to think about.’

So they didn’t speak again, and when they arrived at her uncle’s house she got out of the car and went indoors, leaving him to follow if he pleased.

And if he does, she thought, I’ll eat my lunch in the kitchen, and since she found him sitting in the dining room with Uncle Tom, drinking beer and smoking a pipe and listening with every sign of pleasure to his host’s opinion of illuminated manuscripts of the twelfth century, that was exactly what she did.

Before he left he poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘Your uncle is quite right, you make an excellent sandwich—you must both come to dinner with me one evening and sample Mrs Turner’s cooking.’

Judith didn’t stop washing up. ‘That’s very kind of you, Professor Cresswell, but I’m here to enjoy peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, we’ll make no noise, I promise you—I don’t run to a Palm Court Orchestra.’ He had gone before she could think up another excuse.

It was the next morning, just as she was back from the butchers with a foot or so of the Cumberland sausage her uncle liked so much, that he wandered into the kitchen when surgery was over for the moment.

‘No cooking for you this evening, my dear— Charles has asked us to dinner.’

A surge of strong feeling swept over Judith—annoyance, peevishness at being taken unawares and perhaps a little excitement as well. She said immediately, ‘Oh, Uncle, you’ll have to go without me—I’ve got a headache.’ She was coiling the sausage into a bowl. ‘I’ll stay at home and go to bed early.’

‘Oh, that won’t do at all.’ Her uncle was overriding her gently. ‘I’ve just the thing to cure that—by the evening you’ll be feeling fine again.’ He bustled away and came back with a pill she didn’t need or want, but since he was there watching her, she swallowed it. ‘It’s a splendid day,’ he went on, ‘so after lunch I suggest that you get into the hammock in the garden and have a nap.’

Which, later in the day, she found herself doing, watched by Uncle Tom, looking complacent. This reluctance to meet Charles he considered a good sign, just as he was hopeful of Charles’ deliberate rudeness to her. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen such an exhibition of ill manners towards a woman on the Professor’s part. He knew all about his unfortunate love affair, but that was years ago now—since then he had treated the women who had crossed his path with a bland politeness and no warmth. But now this looked more promising, Uncle Tom decided; his niece, with her lovely face and strong splendid figure, had got under Charles’ skin. He pottered off to his afternoon patients, very pleased with himself.

Much against her inclination, Judith slept, stretched out in the old fashioned hammock slung between the apple trees behind the house. She slept peacefully until the doctor’s elderly Austin came to its spluttering halt before the house, and she just had time to run to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a cup of tea before he came into the house.

It would be nice, she thought, if they had a frantically busy surgery that evening, even a dire emergency, which would prevent them from going to the Professor’s house, but nothing like that happened. The surgery was shorter than usual; Uncle Tom put the telephone on to the answering service, told the local exchange to put through urgent calls to the Professor’s house and indicated that he would be ready to leave within the next hour.

‘And wear something pretty, my dear,’ he warned her. ‘There’ll probably be one or two other people there— Charles doesn’t entertain much, just once or twice a year—they’re something of an event here.’ He added by way of an explanation: ‘Mrs Turner is an excellent cook.’

She was dressing entirely to please herself, Judith argued, putting on the Laura Ashley blouse, a confection of fine lawn, lace insertions and tiny tucks, and adding a thick silk skirt of swirling colours, her very best silk tights and a pair of wispy sandals which had cost her the earth. For the same reason, presumably, she took great pains with her face and hair, informing Uncle Tom, very tidy for once in a dark blue suit, that she just happened to have the outfit with her. Which was true enough, although she hadn’t expected to wear it.

They travelled in the doctor’s car, driving up to the house to find several other cars already there. The house, Judith saw, now that she was at its front, was a good deal larger than she had supposed. It was typical of the Lake District, whitewashed walls under a slate roof, with a wing at the back and a walled garden, full of roses now, encircling it. She went inside with her uncle into a square hall with four doors, all open. There was a good deal of noise coming through one of them; they paused long enough to greet Mrs Turner and were shown into a room on the left.

It was considerably larger than Judith had imagined, running from the front of the house to the back, where doors were open into the garden; it was furnished with a pleasing mixture of old, well cared for pieces and comfortable chintz-covered chairs. It was also quite full of people; women in pretty dresses, men in conventional dark suits. And the Professor, looking utterly different in a collar and tie and a suit of impeccable cut, advancing to meet them.

He clapped Uncle Tom on the shoulder, bade Judith a brisk good evening and introduced them round the room. Uncle Tom knew almost everyone there, of course, and presently, when the Professor had fetched them their drinks, he excused himself and left the doctor to make the introductions himself. Judith, making small talk with a youngish man who said that he was a cousin of the Professor’s, took the opportunity to look round her. There were a dozen people, she judged, and only a few of them from Hawkshead itself. And all the women were pretty and smart and, for the most part, young. She thanked heaven silently that she had worn the silk outfit; it might not be as smart as some of the dresses there, but it stood up very nicely to competition. The cousin was joined by an elderly man whom she vaguely remembered she had seen in church; the local vet, he reminded her jovially, and pointed out his wife, talking to the Professor at the other end of the room. ‘I’ve just given her a Border terrier and I daresay they’re comparing notes.’

‘Oh, has he got one?’

‘Lord, yes, and a nice old Black labrador as well. They’re in the garden, I expect, but they will roam in presently, I daresay—they have the run of the house.’

‘I should have thought that having dogs would have been too much of a distraction for Professor Cresswell—he spends a great deal of time writing, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, but he takes them out early in the morning before starting work—I believe they sit with him while he’s actually at his desk, so they can’t bother him much.’ He smiled at her. ‘How do you like this part of the country?’

The Professor’s cousin had turned aside to speak to a young woman and presently joined them again, this time with his arm round the girl’s shoulders. ‘You have met?’ he wanted to know. ‘Eileen Hunt, an old friend of the family.’ He laughed. ‘One might say, almost, very nearly one of the Cresswell family.’

The girl laughed too, and Judith smiled politely and wondered if they were on the point of getting engaged. She glanced down at the girl’s left hand: there was a wedding ring but nothing else. Eileen caught her eye and smiled with a hint of malice. ‘I’m not going to marry this wretch—he’s got one wife already. You’re not married, Judith?’

The malice was still there. ‘No,’ said Judith carefully. ‘There always seems to be so many other things to do—I daresay I’ll get round to it one day.’

It was a relief when Mrs Turner opened the door and, accompanied by the two dogs, marched across the room to where the Professor stood talking to a small group of people. Dinner, it appeared was ready.

The dining room, on the other side of the hall, was every bit as pleasant as the sitting room. Judith, sitting between the vet and a rather prosy elderly man who had little to say for himself, glanced round the big oval table. Eileen was sitting beside her host, leaning towards him with a laughing face and what Judith could only describe as a proprietorial air. Was that what the cousin had meant? Was the Professor going to take a wife? Judith felt the vague dislike she had had for the girl turn to something much stronger, which considering she didn’t like Charles Cresswell one little bit seemed strange.

The prosy man, having delivered himself of a lengthy speech about local weather, applied himself to his soup, and Judith did the same. It was excellent, as was the salmon which followed it and the saddle of lamb which the Professor carved with precise speed. The prosy man seemed disinclined for conversation; she and the vet carried on a comfortable, desultory chat which took them through the delicious trifle and a glass of the Muscat which had followed the white Bordeaux and the claret, before the ladies rose from the table and trooped back into the sitting room.

‘Very old-fashioned,’ commented the vet’s wife, ‘but Charles is too old to change his ways, I suppose. Besides, I rather like it, don’t you?’ She tucked a friendly hand into Judith’s arm and strolled to the still open doors. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Such quiet, and a heavenly view. We only get a chance to come here about twice a year, you know. Most of the time Charles shuts himself up and writes and the rest of the time he’s travelling around looking for bits of mediaeval history. Your uncle tells me you’re a nurse. That must be interesting.’

‘Yes, it is, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bear London after this.’

‘You live there?’

‘I work there, my parents live in Lacock—that’s in Wiltshire. It’s lovely there too.’

Some of the older women joined them then, and the talk became general until the men came in and her uncle came over. ‘Enjoying yourself, my dear?’ he wanted to know. ‘The headache’s gone? Do you mind very much if we leave within the next few minutes? I’ve explained to Charles that I might get a call from the Lindsays later on this evening.’

He turned away to speak to one of the other men and Judith, finding herself with the prosy man again, listened with outward politeness and an inner peevishness to a lengthy diatribe against the local government. She would be glad to leave, she decided silently; she had no interest in Charles Cresswell or his house, or his friends. It crossed her mind at the same time that he hadn’t any interest in her either. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since his brief greeting; he had invited her out of politeness because Uncle Tom wouldn’t have come without her, but he made no attempt to hide his dislike. And she disliked him too—heartily.

‘A delightful evening,’ she told her host as she and her uncle left a little later, and gave him a smile as insincere as her words. She was greatly put out at his laugh.

‘Was it, Judith?’ His voice was bland. ‘Such a pity that you have to go back to London so soon. You’ve had very little time to get to know us—you’ll forget us, I’m sure.’

She said nothing to this but stood silently while Uncle Tom and his host arranged a date for a day’s climbing. She would be gone by then, of course, but she doubted very much if she would have been included in Charles Cresswell’s invitation.

They drove the short way back in silence and when she had seen to the small bedtime chores and left a thermos of hot coffee ready in case her uncle was called out during the night, she went up to bed. The evening hadn’t been a success—but then, she argued with herself, she hadn’t expected it to be. All the same, she was filled with disappointment that she couldn’t account for. And she didn’t like Eileen; she hoped she wouldn’t have to meet her again, although that wasn’t very likely. The girl lived in Windermere and she would take great care not to go there.

She went the very next day, much against her will. One of her uncle’s patients, an elderly lady of an irascible nature, had driven over from Bowness to consult him. Her car was a vintage Austin and she drove badly. She had reversed into the doctor’s stone wall and shaken up the old car’s innards so badly that she had been forced to leave it at the village garage and then, considering herself very ill used, had demanded some kind of transport to take her home. It was a pity that Judith should go through the hall while she was making her needs known in no uncertain manner to Uncle Tom who, in what Judith considered to be a cowardly fashion, instantly suggested that his niece would be only too glad…

So Judith had ferried Mrs Grant back home, a pleasant house nearer Windermere than Bowness, and would have made her escape at once, only Mrs Grant remembered an important letter which simply had to go from the main post office in Windermere and would Judith be so kind…

She found the post office, posted the letter and remembered that she hadn’t had her coffee, so she left the car parked and went to look for a café. There were any number, and she chose the Hideaway, largely because of its name, and the first person she saw as she went inside was Eileen Hunt.

It was impossible to pretend that she hadn’t seen her, and when Eileen beckoned her over to share her table she went over, wishing she’d chosen any café but that one. But Eileen seemed pleased to see her. ‘Such a pity you had to go early yesterday,’ she observed with apparent friendliness, ‘but I daresay you find our little dinner parties rather dull after London.’

‘I don’t go out a great deal—at least not to dinner parties. I found this one very pleasant.’ Judith ordered her coffee and changed the subject. ‘What a lovely morning.’

Eileen sipped coffee. ‘Yes. I expect you go out a good deal with the doctors in the hospital, don’t you?’

‘Occasionally,’ said Judith coolly.

‘How romantic,’ said Eileen, and flicked a quick glance at Judith. ‘I daresay you’ll marry one of them.’

Judith thought very briefly of Nigel. Her mother had forwarded two letters from him and she hadn’t answered either of them; she went faintly pink with guilt and Eileen smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it be thrilling if he came all this way just to see you?’

‘Very thrilling,’ said Judith, refusing to be drawn. She finished her coffee. ‘I must go—I hadn’t intended coming out this morning and I’ve a mass of things to do.’ She smiled a polite goodbye, got to her feet and turned round, straight into Professor Cresswell. He sidestepped to avoid her and with a quick good morning, she went past him and out of the café. So much for those learned hours at his desk, brooding over the twelfth century! It rankled that he had found her visit to the house so disturbing—squawking like a hen, she remembered with fury—and yet he could spend the morning with that giggling idiot of an Eileen. Well, he’d got what he deserved, she told herself as she drove back to Hawkshead, and it was no business of hers, anyway. And in three days’ time she would be going home.

On her last day, with Mrs Lockyer safely back in the kitchen, Judith took herself off to Coniston. She had promised herself that she would climb the Old Man of Coniston, and although it was well past lunchtime by the time she got there there were several paths which would take her to the top without the need to hurry too much. She parked the car in the village and started off. She enjoyed walking, even uphill, and she was quite her old self again by now, making an easy job of the climb, and once at the top, perched on a giant boulder to admire the enormous view. It was warm now and presently she curled up and closed her eyes. It would be nice to be at home again, she thought sleepily, and there was still a week before going back to hospital—which reminded her of Nigel. She dozed off, frowning.

She slept for half an hour or more and woke with the sun warm on her face. She didn’t open her eyes at once, but lay there, frowning again. Nigel was bad enough when she was awake, but to dream of him too was more than enough. She sighed and opened her eyes slowly, and looked straight at Charles Cresswell, sitting on another boulder a foot or two away.

‘Why were you frowning?’ he wanted to know.

Judith sat up. Denim slacks and a T-shirt did nothing to detract from her beauty, nor did her tousled hair and her shiny face, warm from the sun still. She said crossly: ‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked.’ He whistled softly and the Border terrier and the labrador appeared silently to sit beside him. ‘The dogs like it here.’

Judith tugged at her T-shirt with a disarming unselfconsciousness. ‘I must be getting back.’ She got to her feet. ‘Goodbye, Professor Cresswell.’

‘Retreat, Judith?’ His voice was smooth.

‘Certainly not—I said I’d be back to give a hand at evening surgery.’

‘You leave tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ She started to walk past him and he put out a hand and caught her gently by the arm.

‘There’s plenty of time. I should like to know what you think of Hawkshead—of Cumbria—what you’ve seen of it?’

She tried to free her arm and was quite unable to do so. ‘It’s very beautiful. This is my third visit here, you know—I’m not a complete stranger to the Lakes…’

‘You wouldn’t like to live here?’

Just for a moment she forgot that she didn’t like him overmuch. ‘Oh, but I would,’ and then sharply: ‘Why do you ask?’

She was annoyed when he didn’t answer, instead he observed in a silky voice which annoyed her very much: ‘You would find it very tame after London.’

Eileen Hunt had said something very like that too; perhaps they had been discussing her. Judith said sharply: ‘No, I wouldn’t. And now if you’ll let go of my arm, I should like to go.’ She added stiffly: ‘I shan’t see you again, Professor Cresswell; I hope your book will be a success. It’s been nice meeting you.’ She uttered the lie so unconvincingly that he laughed out loud.

‘Of course the book will be a success—my books always are. And meeting you hasn’t been nice at all, Judith Golightly.’

She patted the dogs’ heads swiftly and went down the path without another word. She would have liked to have run, but that would have looked like retreat. She wasn’t doing that, she told herself stoutly; she was getting away as quickly as possible from someone she couldn’t stand the sight of.