To Journey Together (14 page)

He flushed at that, and his rather bold, bright eyes fell before her almost serene glance. She had never expected to see him so put out, and the knowledge that it was her own work was almost intoxicating.

"I am extremely sorry," he said slowly. "I realize that I was both smug and unjust, both of which are quite insufferable"

"Oh, please!"

"But the only thing I can say in extenuation," he added with a slight, wry smile, "is that if I had not liked you I should not have bothered to interfere —mistakenly or otherwise."

"Oh, Ken!" The apology was so handsome that she forgot all her anger and distress and took both his hands in hers. "You couldn't put it more charmingly. Please don't say any more."

"I wasn't going to," he told her with a flash of humour. "Abasing myself is not my long suit."

And then they both laughed, and she felt his fingers clasp hers strongly.

"Am I forgiven?"

"But of course!"

"Good. Then I shall sleep tonight." And, even though she knew that was only a joke, she felt indefinably flattered that he should even laughingly suggest that he could lose a wink of sleep over her.

He came with her to the lift after that, but as it appeared no longer to be running, she bade him good night and ran up the stairs with an indescribably lightened heart.

At the bend of the staircase, she turned and waved to him, and then went on once more, aware by some inner instinct only just awakened, that Kenneth stood looking after her, half amused, half puzzled, and wholly intrigued.

THE next morning Elinor awoke to a feeling of indescribable well-being. She lay there in bed for a moment or two, watching the pale sunlight filtering through the slatted shutters outside her window, and wondering why it was that she felt so satisfied with life.

Then suddenly she remembered her encounter the previous evening with Kenneth, and she knew that what made her feel so reassured—so elated, even—was the surprised realization that she had handled the whole thing extremely well. Less than a month ago such a thing would have been a sheer impossibility for her, and if this was what foreign travel did for one's morale, Elinor was all for foreign travel!

As she got up and dressed she hummed to herself. She felt that, in some way, the episode had given her some new light on Kenneth, and she remembered some of the things he had said with the keenest pleasure. (Not all of them, of course. But the less acceptable ones she dismissed from her mind.) What had pleased and surprised her most of all was his remark to the effect that he would not have presumed to interfere in her affairs if he had not liked her. The compliment might be oblique, but it was unmistakable.

Presently she went to the window and, pushing back the outer shutters, she looked out for the first time on what Sir Daniel had called the most romantic city in Europe.

Before her, in fascinating profusion and magically unstudied grouping, rose towers and domes and steeples. Almost immediately opposite her was the world-famous facade of the Opera House—still the heart and soul of Vienna, though all except the facade had been destroyed during the war and then painfu
lly and slowly rebuilt. And soari
ng over all, in isolated majesty and irreducible splendour, was the

great Gothic steeple of the Stefanskirchc
—
St.

Stephen's Cathedral.

Suddenly Elinor felt she could not wait to explore it all. Shyness and reserve were all forgotten as she almost ran out of her room and along the wide corridor to the lift. Even this spacious and gilded affair no longer held terrors for her. The man who was on duty that morning smiled at her and wished her "Gruss Gott", and, following his instructions, she found her way to the breakfast-room.

None of the others was down yet, but it was an understood thing that they did not wait for each other in the morning, so she sat down alone to enjoy her coffee and rolls.

Hardly had she poured out her first cup of coffee, however, when Rosemary Copeland came into the room. She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking round. Then, seeing Elinor, she came over to join her.

'Good morning," she said, with unabashed amiability. "Ken said I was to come and apologize to you when next I saw you."

"Did he?" Elinor's tone was a little dry, in spite of herself. "And do you usually do what he tells you?"

"Mostly," Rosemary admitted. "It's a question of habit, you know."

"Habit?"

"Oh, yes. Ken is a bit like an elder brother to me." She pulled out the chair opposite Elinor. "May I come and sit with you?"

Elinor could easily have dispensed with the other girl's company, for she still felt sore about last night's incident. But it was difficult to see how she could refuse point-blank, and, in any case, she was curious to hear more about Kenneth's being like an elder brother to her. So she indicated that Rosemary might join her, and watched her slide into the seat opposite.

"How does Kenneth contrive to be like an elder brother to you?" Elinor enquired, before Rosemary could start any other, less absorbing, subject.

"Well, you see, during the war my parents sent me to the country to live with Ken's people. They were friends of theirs. Ken used to come home there in his school holidays, of course, and as he had no sisters, he used to treat me as a sort of kid sister. The relationship continued to a certain extent as I grew up—and so—" she grinned mischievously and rather charmingly—"I do tend to do what he tells me."

"And he told you to apologize to me?" Elinor smiled faintly.

"Yes. And really I do—in full style," Rosemary declared. "I didn't quite mean to make the scene between you and Rudi von Eiberg sound so startling."

"It was very unkind of you. Especially as I think you guessed it was entirely harmless," Elinor said, a faint tremor of indignation sounding in her voice even now.

"Yes, of course," Rosemary conceded carelessly. "Anyone could see you aren't the stuff of which flirts are made. Any girl would see it, I mean. Of course Ken is as stupid as most men about these things. I'm sorry if you were really upset. But—" she grinned suddenly—"it was a great temptation to make a drama of it, with you looking so solemn and Ken going bail for your good behaviour in that most unusually rash way. I never heard him do it for anyone else."

"Am I supposed to laugh about it now and say it's all right?" enquired Elinor, trying to remain severe but somehow finding herself regarding Rosemary in much the same way as she would have regarded Deborah after some misdemeanour.

"I wish you would," the other girl admitted frankly. "After all, when you come to think of it, the whole incident wasn't so very important."

"You made it sound so!"

Rosemary laughed.

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant—well, did it matter so much what Ken thought, one way or the other?"

"Of course it did."

Rosemary stared at Elinor in sudden, wide-eyed interest.

"Are you rather sweet on Ken?" she enquired.

"Certainly not!" Elinor flushed with indignant amusement. "I just don't like being misjudged or thought cheap by any reasonably nice associate."

"Oh, I see. That's all right then."

Elinor glanced at the other girl with uncontrollable curiosity.

"Why is it 'all right'?" she enquired, wondering—as she had several times before—whether Rosemary considered she had a proprietary interest in Kenneth.

"Just that—I was going to say it's so little good getting sweet on Ken. He never falls in love with anyone."

"Doesn't he?" Elinor said politely. And so strange and inexplicable a thing is human nature—and particularly feminine human nature—that she immediately found Kenneth much more interesting than she ever had before.

"Oh, no. I've seen the most attractive and desirable creatures make passes at him," Rosemary declared. "He's very polite and sometimes quite charming and amusing in return, but he never loses his head."

"Perhaps that's just as well," Elinor suggested.

But Rosemary didn't seem to think so.

"His mother says—and I'm inclined to agree with her—that men of Ken's age should fall in and out of love a bit. I guess he's been a little spoilt, you know, with being a good deal run after."

"Perhaps," agreed Elinor, who would never have presumed to think of Kenneth as "spoilt". And then the Conneltons and Kenneth came in, and this most interesting topic had to be abandoned.

"It's a wonderful day for shopping," declared Lady Connelton in a satisfied tone, as though there were some relation between the weather and the buying impulse. "I hope neither of you men wants Elinor today, because I do."

Both disclaimed any intention of appropriating her time, though Sir Daniel did enquire curiously in what capacity his wife required her.

"Just to help me make up my mind about several things, dear," explained Lady Connelton vaguely, though everyone present knew that no one was better able to make up her own mind than Lady Connelton.

"I take it you are buying extensively?" grumbled her husband good-humouredly.

"Extensively," Lady Connelton agreed, without going into anything so debatable as detail.

She then turned to Rosemary and asked kindly if she would like to join Elinor and herself. But Rosemary, it seemed, had interests of her own—in fact, she was obviously a very self-sufficient young woman in most ways—and so, though she thanked Lady Connelton quite charmingly, she refused the offer.

Elinor was not sorry. For, although she no longer cherished any resentment against Rosemary—it was difficult to do so in the face of the disarming air of friendliness which Rosemary had now adopted—she was looking forward very much to a morning on her own with Lady Connelton.

They set off together from the hotel, Lady Connelton declaring that at least she knew her way to the Karntnerstrasse—the nearby heart of Vienna's shopping district. And, in a matter of minutes, Elinor found herself walking slowly along that strangely narrow but fascinating street, gazing in shop windows at the loveliest blouses and scarves and handbags she had ever seen.

"One could spend a fortune here!" she exclaimed.

To which Lady Connelton replied that, if she did not intend to spend exactly a fortune, she did mean to have a very pleasant and extravagant morning.

This intention she then proceeded to put into effect.

Elinor enjoyed every moment of it. She began to understand why Sir Daniel claimed—as he did-

that the Viennese women were the smartest in Europe. Never in her life had she supposed that there could be so many enchanting dress accessories, and never, she thought, had she seen more attractive, elegant clothes.

Beside Lady Connelton's purchases, her own were modest. But she did buy a very lovely scarf for her mother, and the most fascinating little fob ornaments for Anne and herself.

To her mingled embarrassment and delight, Lady Connelton insisted on buying her an exquisitely embroidered organdie blouse.

"Nonsense, dear!" she said, in answer to Elinor's protests. "Why shouldn't I give myself the pleasure of making you a present? And, in any case, this was absolutely made for you. It reflects just that combination of the demure and the intriguing which somehow suggests you."

"Oh, Lady Connelton! You are an angel to give me anything so beautiful and to pretend at the same time that you are only pleasing yourself. But I don't think anyone else would agree with you about my being intriguing," Elinor felt bound to add. "I'm sure no one at the office ever found me that."

"Perhaps office life was not calculated to bring out the most attractive side of you," Lady Connelton suggested. "There has been quite a change in you in the last few weeks, you know."

"Has there?" Elinor looked doubtful. "I feel different, it's true. But I didn't know I showed it."

"Perfectly natural development, dear child," Lady Connelton assured her. "Nothing tends more surely to bring out a girl's natural charm than a little masculine appreciation. And you've had two decidedly attractive men taking more than a passing interest in you lately."

"Oh, Lady Connelton!"

"Of course you have. Don't be so deprecating about it," her employer advised her, with a sort of brisk amusement. "First there was that nice, amusing Rudi von Eiberg—who will, I am sure, turn up

this afternoon with some agreeable suggestion or other—and now there is Ken, I think."

"Lady Connelton," Elinor protested, "Ken hasn't even a passing interest in me."

"Don't you think so?" Lady Connelton laughed good-humouredly. "Well, judging by my tiresome nephew's usual indifference to our sex, I should say that rather more than a passing interest just about describes his attitude to you."

"But Rosemary, who really seems to know him very well, says that he—he is never really interested in anyone."

"I know. So you got as far as discussing the subject with Rosemary?" Lady Connelton shot an amused glance at Elinor.

"Not really—no! She more or less volunteered the information," Elinor explained, blushing slightly.