My Sister Celia by Mary Burchell

being a healthy young creature, she fell asleep almost immediately, and slept until her small but obstreperous alarm clock roused her to the duties of another day.
    It was hard to have to rush through breakfast and take herself off to the office as usual when, all the time, she felt like the heroine of an adventure story. But nothing is stronger than habit. And, in spite of all that had happened to her the previous evening, Freda found herself surrendering to the routine of a normal day, with a cheerful resignation known only to those who have never queried the rightness of their having to earn their living in a hard world.
    She would have liked to tell someone about the tremendous discovery that she had a sister. But Ellen Marley was away on a day ’ s leave, and there didn ’ t seem to be a suitable opportunity to tell anyone else. So she hugged the wonderful knowledge to herself and was happy about it in her own way.
    Still under the somewhat sobering influence of a busy office day, she returned home, telling herself that she must not necessarily expect to hear from Celia immediately. But hardly had she taken off her hat when her telephone bell rang, and the moment she seized the receiver, Celia ’ s unmistakable voice said,
    “At last! Darling, where have you been all day?”
    “At the office.”
    “What office?” Celia enquired.
    “Well—the office where I work, of course. I earn my own living, you know. Don ’ t you?”
    “No. Not very seriously.”
    “O-oh. Most people do.”
    “Yes. I know. And I ’ m aware that I ’ m a fortunate exception.” Celia spoke with engaging candour and what sounded like genuine gratitude. “But somehow, when you talked about owning a cottage and that sort of thing, I thought —”
    “Oh— that !” Freda began to laugh. “I only acquired it a week ago. And anyway it was left to me in someone ’ s will. But it ’ s too long a story to tell you now. For all practical purposes I ’ m what ’ s known as a working girl, and on every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, I ’ m at the office. I ’ m sorry I wasn ’ t in before when you rang. But here I am now. How did your—your parents take the news?”
    “They were frightfully taken aback,” Celia said f rankly . “Far more so than they need have been , I thought,” she added with a puzzled note in her voice.
    “But it ’ s a tremendous discovery for anyone to have to take,” Freda pointed out rather gently. “Even now, I feel almost stunned by it myself.”
    “Yes, of course,” Celia agreed, but in a resilient sort of tone which ruled out any idea of her having been stunned. “Only—it ’ s a nice discovery, Freda.”
    “For us most certainly. For them I suppose it might well be disturbing.”
    “You funny girl. You seem to understand their reaction better than I do.”
    Freda forebore to mention that she had been forewarned by Brian.
    “Anyway,” Celia went on, “ of course they want to see you. Indeed, their attitude seems to be that they can ’ t really accept the idea until they have s een you.”
    “I suppose that ’ s natural too,” Freda said slowly. But she felt chilled and disturbed at the prospect of appearing before the sceptical Vanners, however much she might, theoretically, admit the justice of their attitude. “When would they like to—to see me?”
    “ This evening, if you can manage it.
    “ Yes. I could manage it.”
    “But—Freda, please don ’ t mind about this—they want to see you alone. I mean—they don ’ t want either Brian or me there. They have some idea that we ’ re prejudiced. That we—or, at least, I— might interfere and influence things too much.”
    “I see.” Freda tried to suppress the little flame of resentment which these words lit. But it was extraordinarily difficult not to be angry at having the role of probable imposter so obviously thrust upon her.
    “Are you there?” Celia spoke a trifle anxiously, as though she thought the slight