The Eye of Love by Margery Sharp Page A

“Gentleman interested in photography seeks congenial model,” “Young lady free evenings seeks congenial employment,” besides a dozen other apartment-cards—it really stood out. Martha often stopped to look at it. But apparently no one else did.
    It was now that Miss Diver’s lack of social relations showed as such a serious handicap. She was on no grapevine. She had no one to recommend her. And it was too late to do anything about it, for as she had once been too happy to make friends, now she was too wretched. She hadn’t even neighbours. Alcock Road, without being exactly raffish, was a rather secretive little street, as such little streets in London often are. Could its walls have talked they might have told many an interesting tale—one or two perhaps as romantic as Dolores’ own; for whatever reasons its inhabitants (except for the party-giving extrovert long since vanished) kept themselves strictly to themselves. The single house Dolores ever entered was that of Miss Taylor, chiropodist—and there kept her distance, because everyone knew how that sort of person gossiped …
    Dolores had in fact always been rather grand, at Miss Taylor’s. Certainly she couldn’t bring herself to appeal there for help in finding a lodger. Which was a pity, because Miss Taylor actually knew of one not a stone’s-throw away—the dissatisfied occupant of a bed-sit in Praed Street—and thus through pride Dolores missed an excellent chance.
    She had no luck.
    Paradoxically, as lodgers continued absent, her face began to set more and more in the irritated, worried expression associated by Martha with landladies. It was as yet but a foreshadowing; Miss Diver would never be a Ma Battleaxe; but lodgers yet unborn (so to speak) might not impossibly (so that expression foreshadowed) come to know her as Old Madrid …
    Of this second threat to her identity, Miss Diver was unaware.

CHAPTER SIX
    1
    The shop was taken over lock, stock and barrel; so was Harry Gibson.
    No prospective ’groom had ever less to do: between them Miranda and his mother and Auntie Bee and Mr Joyce saw to everything. Even the engagement-ring, a handsome affair of diamonds, appeared as though by magic in his pocket—Mr Joyce bought it and old Mrs Gibson put it there; all Harry’s part was to give it back to Miranda. (Almost to his admiration, she received it with surprise. “Oh, Harry !” cried Miranda. “It’s beautiful!” Mr Gibson took a look himself: no doubt old Joyce had got it through the trade, but even so he must have put down a couple of hundred. “Dadda, see my ring!” cried Miranda—slightly overdoing things. Mr Joyce merely made a note to have it insured.) Nor did the question of where they should live, so often a problem to young couples, present any more difficulty; there was plenty of room in the Knightsbridge flat. “Naturally you and Miranda will have your own sitting-room,” explained Mrs Gibson. “You will not have to be all the time in that old Beatrice’s pocket!” Her encouragements were superfluous; the last things Harry Gibson wanted was to be shut up alone with Miranda. If his mother had been coming along too, he’d have rejoiced—but the mater on this point was wiser. “It will be nice for you to have somewhere to visit,” she said slyly. “Even Miranda will not mind you visiting your old mother, boy!”
    Mr Gibson surrendered all initiative willingly. Indeed, he felt it would have been beyond his powers to deal with any one of these matters himself, so poignant were the memories they stirred. The only jewel he ever gave Dolores was a garnet—but what pleasure he’d taken in choosing it! The leasing of the little house in Alcock Road—what a delicious, rash adventure! Mr Gibson did his best to set such memories aside; but only succeeded, he hoped, in not betraying them. “So much my