Mullins put the small elaborate clock down and held out his plump hand to Cressida.
“How do you do, Miss Barclay. But how pretty she is, Arabia.”
“Of course she’s pretty. She’ll look more attractive in your shop than all this junk you’ve got here.”
“Mr. Mullins may not need an assistant,” Cressida ventured.
“Of course he needs an assistant. I’ve been telling him so for years. Someone to dust, someone to mind the shop while he goes to lunch. He starves himself to death. Now, it’s no use to deny that, Albert. I know it. Cheese sandwiches, indeed!”
Mr. Mullins nodded meekly.
“That is true. I do eat a great many sandwiches. And the dust certainly is a problem. To be quite truthful, Miss Barclay, I would have had an assistant long ago if I could have found the right person. Since Arabia assures me that you are—”
“There’s no question about it, Albert.” Arabia’s deep, compelling voice swept all doubt aside. “Now give me your miserly pittance for the clock and I’ll leave you to instruct Cressida in her duties.”
The two moved into the corner of the shop where the cash desk was, and after some wrangling, during which Arabia’s voice saying, “What a wretched old cheat you are!” emerged clearly, Arabia left, and Cressida was left in the dark shop with its fascinating dusty conglomeration of objects, and the cherubic Mr. Mullins.
He was still reverently handling the little French clock.
“I’ve wanted this for years,” he said. “Arabia would never sell. She’s a most unpredictable person. One never gives up hope, because one day, just like this, she will change her mind.”
“Now you have the clock and me too,” Cressida said.
“To be quite honest, Miss Barclay, the bribe was unnecessary. I do need an assistant, and in fact I had been going to put a card in the window today. Here it is, written out. So one would almost call it fate.”
Or coincidence, thought Cressida. Were there being too many coincidences in her life at present for comfort?
“I think you will be very suitable, especially if you know even a little about antiques.”
“I do,” Cressida assured him.
“Then what could be better? Supposing you take a duster, and as you work you will get to know my stock. At first, please refer all customers to me, except for small articles that are plainly marked with the price.” He paused to give his dimpling smile. “I think we should get along very well, Miss Barclay.”
So here was one more person who was being kind to her. All at once Cressida had an uncomfortable intuition to distrust her good fortune. It could not, surely, continue like this.
“Thank you, Mr. Mullins. I’ll do my best.”
“I didn’t ask your age, Miss Barclay, or where you come from.”
“I’m twenty-two and I come from the Cotswolds.”
“And how long have you known Mrs. Bolton?”
“Only since yesterday. She has rather adopted me, I’m afraid. After all, how could one be unsympathetic—”
She stopped as she was aware of Mr. Mullins’s sober and intense gaze.
“You are referring to the daughter, of course.”
“Yes, Lucy.”
“She’s been dead a long time now.”
“But Arabia dotes on her.”
“It doesn’t pay to dote too much on people.” Mr. Mullins closed his little mouth firmly and looked wise. Cressida suddenly wanted to smile at his earnestness.
“If I were you, Miss Barclay, I wouldn’t let Arabia dote too much on you.”
“But why should she? I’m a complete stranger.”
“You remind her of Lucy. Didn’t she tell you so?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She’s a strange and impulsive woman. Oh, I’m not saying a word against her. She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends. But she takes things hard.”
“Are you warning me about something, Mr. Mullins?”
“Only that over-possessiveness can be an uncomfortable thing.”
“Did you know Lucy?” Cressida asked eagerly.
Did his eyes flicker a moment? She couldn’t be sure, for his
“How do you do, Miss Barclay. But how pretty she is, Arabia.”
“Of course she’s pretty. She’ll look more attractive in your shop than all this junk you’ve got here.”
“Mr. Mullins may not need an assistant,” Cressida ventured.
“Of course he needs an assistant. I’ve been telling him so for years. Someone to dust, someone to mind the shop while he goes to lunch. He starves himself to death. Now, it’s no use to deny that, Albert. I know it. Cheese sandwiches, indeed!”
Mr. Mullins nodded meekly.
“That is true. I do eat a great many sandwiches. And the dust certainly is a problem. To be quite truthful, Miss Barclay, I would have had an assistant long ago if I could have found the right person. Since Arabia assures me that you are—”
“There’s no question about it, Albert.” Arabia’s deep, compelling voice swept all doubt aside. “Now give me your miserly pittance for the clock and I’ll leave you to instruct Cressida in her duties.”
The two moved into the corner of the shop where the cash desk was, and after some wrangling, during which Arabia’s voice saying, “What a wretched old cheat you are!” emerged clearly, Arabia left, and Cressida was left in the dark shop with its fascinating dusty conglomeration of objects, and the cherubic Mr. Mullins.
He was still reverently handling the little French clock.
“I’ve wanted this for years,” he said. “Arabia would never sell. She’s a most unpredictable person. One never gives up hope, because one day, just like this, she will change her mind.”
“Now you have the clock and me too,” Cressida said.
“To be quite honest, Miss Barclay, the bribe was unnecessary. I do need an assistant, and in fact I had been going to put a card in the window today. Here it is, written out. So one would almost call it fate.”
Or coincidence, thought Cressida. Were there being too many coincidences in her life at present for comfort?
“I think you will be very suitable, especially if you know even a little about antiques.”
“I do,” Cressida assured him.
“Then what could be better? Supposing you take a duster, and as you work you will get to know my stock. At first, please refer all customers to me, except for small articles that are plainly marked with the price.” He paused to give his dimpling smile. “I think we should get along very well, Miss Barclay.”
So here was one more person who was being kind to her. All at once Cressida had an uncomfortable intuition to distrust her good fortune. It could not, surely, continue like this.
“Thank you, Mr. Mullins. I’ll do my best.”
“I didn’t ask your age, Miss Barclay, or where you come from.”
“I’m twenty-two and I come from the Cotswolds.”
“And how long have you known Mrs. Bolton?”
“Only since yesterday. She has rather adopted me, I’m afraid. After all, how could one be unsympathetic—”
She stopped as she was aware of Mr. Mullins’s sober and intense gaze.
“You are referring to the daughter, of course.”
“Yes, Lucy.”
“She’s been dead a long time now.”
“But Arabia dotes on her.”
“It doesn’t pay to dote too much on people.” Mr. Mullins closed his little mouth firmly and looked wise. Cressida suddenly wanted to smile at his earnestness.
“If I were you, Miss Barclay, I wouldn’t let Arabia dote too much on you.”
“But why should she? I’m a complete stranger.”
“You remind her of Lucy. Didn’t she tell you so?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She’s a strange and impulsive woman. Oh, I’m not saying a word against her. She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends. But she takes things hard.”
“Are you warning me about something, Mr. Mullins?”
“Only that over-possessiveness can be an uncomfortable thing.”
“Did you know Lucy?” Cressida asked eagerly.
Did his eyes flicker a moment? She couldn’t be sure, for his
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