The Truant Spirit by Sara Seale

hazarded.
    “Perfectly, to the best of my knowledge.”
    “But one cannot help noticing the leg—it is an old war wound, hein?”
    “No. It was an accident.”
    “Tiens ... And Monsieur’s business—it brings him here much?”
    Bunny withdrew the brush and dusted her hands on her overall. She tied her head up in an unbecoming handkerchief while she was working and under it her face looked prim and pinched and rather absurd.
    “Mr. Brockman is on holiday,” she observed discouragingly. “You should ask him these things yourself, Marthe, if you are interested.”
    Marthe grunted again and returned to her seat by the fire, leaving her hostess to replace the bookcase as best she might. She recognised and resented the snub, knowing, as did Bunny, that she would not have the temerity to question Brock. She despised his shabbiness and the unconcern with which he would help with the evening wash-up, but there was a quality about him that made her uneasy. She kept a civil tongue when those frosty, dispassionate eyes were upon her, and when he spoke to her sharply in her own tongue she was not so sure in what category he might be placed.
    “M. le docteur gives permission for us to return soon, yes?” she said, but Bunny shook her head.
    “Miss Lamb is only getting up tomorrow for the first time,” she said. “You will have to be patient for another few days, Marthe.”
    Bunny knew that Dr. Northy, who had also taken a dislike to Marthe, was prolonging the period of convalescence more than was necessary, but she had herself conceived a fondness for Sabina in the last few days. She did not care for the way Marthe spoke to the child, nor did she approve of the friendless life of neglect she appeared to lead in London.
    Sabina had not asked for Brock, but on the third day, when her temperature was down again, he had gone upstairs to see her. She welcomed him doubtfully, very conscious that she had turned him out of his room for too long, and his expression as he stood at the foot of the bed, regarding her, was not reassuring.
    “I’m afraid I’ve been a lot of trouble,” she said, and as he did not reply, fidgeted nervously with the ribbons of her bed jacket, very conscious all at once of the alien masculine presence by her bed.
    He continued to observe her, his hands in the pockets of his old slacks, and as the colour began to mount in her cheeks, he smiled suddenly, altering the whole expression of his face.
    “Was I staring rudely?” he mocked gently. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you properly—by daylight, I mean.”
    He came and sat on the side of the bed, and observed, as Bunny had done, how sharply defined were her bones and how light and immature she looked against the pillows.
    “How do you feel?” he asked, frowning. “Northy doesn’t seem very satisfied with you.”
    She smiled shyly.
    “That’s only because he thinks I’m too thin.”
    “You are—much too thin. You look as though you need country air and a lot of feeding.”
    “I’ve always been thin,” she said apologetically. “I expect it’s because I’ve just finished growing, but Tante says it s unbecoming. I hope she hasn’t given M. Bergerac a— a false impression. The photograph she sent him a little while ago wasn’t a bit like me.”
    “Wasn’t it?”
    “No. It was flattering of course, and sort of vague and smudgy in an artistic kind of way, and Marthe had dressed my hair very elaborately.”
    She was talking too much, she knew, but she was nervous, and as she saw his eyes travel to her hair, which lay soft and childishly straight on her shoulders, she put up a hand to administer an ineffectual twist to the ends.
    “So you weren’t inventing, after all, he said. M. Bergerac is real and you are prepared to go through with this marriage to oblige your aunt.”
    “Marthe told you, I suppose.”
    “Oh, yes, Marthe made things very clear. Are you going to like living in France with a stranger?”
    “I don’t know, but