than me. Got any new clothes to show me?’
Margaret shook her head.
‘Eaten all your sweet ration?’
Margaret nodded.
‘Then I think I’ll be going. Walk down the road with me?’
‘Yes, I’ve got some letters to post.’
She put on a coat which she had not worn since she had house-hunted in London, and as they went downstairs she slipped her hands, as was her habit, into the pockets.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.
‘What’s up?’
‘How awful! That ration book – I never sent it back!’
‘What ration book?’
‘The one I found on the Heath when I was staying with you.’
‘But that’s nearly a month ago!’
‘I know, that’s what makes it so awful.’
‘Wasn’t the address on it?’ asked Hilda. They had paused in the hall outside the drawing-room door and both had lowered their voices.
‘Of course.’ Margaret handed her the book. ‘I meant to send it back at once, only I didn’t wear this coat again and there were so many things to see to that I forgot.’
‘Hebe Niland,’ Hilda read aloud. ‘What an extraordinary name. Is it a girl or a man?’
‘A girl. Hebe was the cupbearer of the Gods in Ancient Greece.’
‘Sounds like a refugee,’ mused Hilda. ‘N. W. 3 – that’s Hampstead. Probably is a refugee, then; Hampstead’s alive with them. What’ll you do about it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t just send it back with a note after all this time; it looks so rude. I expect it’s given them a lot of trouble, too.’
‘Given me a lot, you mean,’ said Hilda, who worked in a Food Office. ‘Why don’t you ’phone her up?’
‘If she’s a refugee (but I don’t believe she is, somehow) she won’t be in the book.’ Margaret stopped and her eyes grew wider. ‘There’s a famous artist called Niland,’ she said. ‘I suppose she couldn’t be anything to do with him?’
‘Might be. It isn’t a common name. Why don’t you walk over to Hampstead and see?’
‘Oh, I’d love to!’ Then she hesitated, and went on: ‘Only it might seem – it’s rather a queer thing to do – going to see someone you don’t know.’
‘Whereabouts did you find it?’
‘On the path down by the lower ponds – it was a man who dropped it, I’m almost sure. I noticed two men walking past, and then I saw it on the path.’
‘Perhaps it was him – the artist.’
‘It might have been. Alexander Niland,’ she repeated to herself, ‘the Modern Renoir, the papers call him. I don’t know, I’ve never seen a photograph of him.’
‘Well, if it is his wife it will make it more of a thrill for you,’ said Hilda, slightly bored. ‘I’d certainly walk over; you might get another peek at him.’
‘Perhaps I will.’ Margaret put the book carefully away in her bag. ‘Don’t say anything about it –’ she jerked her head towards the drawing-room door.
‘I get you,’ murmured Hilda, and opened the door and inquired dulcetly:
‘Mum? Are you staying the night? Pardon me, Mrs Steggles, if I collect my parent.’
‘I’m just going out to post these, Mother,’ said Margaret, holding up the letters. The three elders were sitting in silence with flushed faces, and Mrs Wilson looked slightly embarrassed and relieved when Hilda entered.
‘Yes, we must be going,’ she said, getting up quickly. ‘Well, good night, and thank you for that welcome cup of tea, and mind you give us a ring if we can be of any help in any way.’
‘That’s very kind of you, thank you, we won’t forget,’ said Mr Steggles heartily, following her out of the room. Mrs Steggles said clearly, ‘Good night, and thank you . You and Mr Wilson must come round to tea properly one Sunday after we’re straight,’ and knelt down once more in front of the box. Mr Steggles shut the door on the visitors and came back into the drawing-room. He stood by the mantelpiece looking down at the pipe he was refilling in silence for a few moments.
‘Well?’ said his wife, without looking
Margaret shook her head.
‘Eaten all your sweet ration?’
Margaret nodded.
‘Then I think I’ll be going. Walk down the road with me?’
‘Yes, I’ve got some letters to post.’
She put on a coat which she had not worn since she had house-hunted in London, and as they went downstairs she slipped her hands, as was her habit, into the pockets.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.
‘What’s up?’
‘How awful! That ration book – I never sent it back!’
‘What ration book?’
‘The one I found on the Heath when I was staying with you.’
‘But that’s nearly a month ago!’
‘I know, that’s what makes it so awful.’
‘Wasn’t the address on it?’ asked Hilda. They had paused in the hall outside the drawing-room door and both had lowered their voices.
‘Of course.’ Margaret handed her the book. ‘I meant to send it back at once, only I didn’t wear this coat again and there were so many things to see to that I forgot.’
‘Hebe Niland,’ Hilda read aloud. ‘What an extraordinary name. Is it a girl or a man?’
‘A girl. Hebe was the cupbearer of the Gods in Ancient Greece.’
‘Sounds like a refugee,’ mused Hilda. ‘N. W. 3 – that’s Hampstead. Probably is a refugee, then; Hampstead’s alive with them. What’ll you do about it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t just send it back with a note after all this time; it looks so rude. I expect it’s given them a lot of trouble, too.’
‘Given me a lot, you mean,’ said Hilda, who worked in a Food Office. ‘Why don’t you ’phone her up?’
‘If she’s a refugee (but I don’t believe she is, somehow) she won’t be in the book.’ Margaret stopped and her eyes grew wider. ‘There’s a famous artist called Niland,’ she said. ‘I suppose she couldn’t be anything to do with him?’
‘Might be. It isn’t a common name. Why don’t you walk over to Hampstead and see?’
‘Oh, I’d love to!’ Then she hesitated, and went on: ‘Only it might seem – it’s rather a queer thing to do – going to see someone you don’t know.’
‘Whereabouts did you find it?’
‘On the path down by the lower ponds – it was a man who dropped it, I’m almost sure. I noticed two men walking past, and then I saw it on the path.’
‘Perhaps it was him – the artist.’
‘It might have been. Alexander Niland,’ she repeated to herself, ‘the Modern Renoir, the papers call him. I don’t know, I’ve never seen a photograph of him.’
‘Well, if it is his wife it will make it more of a thrill for you,’ said Hilda, slightly bored. ‘I’d certainly walk over; you might get another peek at him.’
‘Perhaps I will.’ Margaret put the book carefully away in her bag. ‘Don’t say anything about it –’ she jerked her head towards the drawing-room door.
‘I get you,’ murmured Hilda, and opened the door and inquired dulcetly:
‘Mum? Are you staying the night? Pardon me, Mrs Steggles, if I collect my parent.’
‘I’m just going out to post these, Mother,’ said Margaret, holding up the letters. The three elders were sitting in silence with flushed faces, and Mrs Wilson looked slightly embarrassed and relieved when Hilda entered.
‘Yes, we must be going,’ she said, getting up quickly. ‘Well, good night, and thank you for that welcome cup of tea, and mind you give us a ring if we can be of any help in any way.’
‘That’s very kind of you, thank you, we won’t forget,’ said Mr Steggles heartily, following her out of the room. Mrs Steggles said clearly, ‘Good night, and thank you . You and Mr Wilson must come round to tea properly one Sunday after we’re straight,’ and knelt down once more in front of the box. Mr Steggles shut the door on the visitors and came back into the drawing-room. He stood by the mantelpiece looking down at the pipe he was refilling in silence for a few moments.
‘Well?’ said his wife, without looking
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