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Seated in the lounge Aunt Cora took Bridie on her knees and ran her fingers gently through the dog’s fur. “I presume that, at the moment, there is nothing between you and John Miller?” she asked, watching her niece’s tell-tale face.

“No, of course not!” Katie hoped she sounded sufficiently convincing. “John Miller and I have nothing in common, Aunt Cora. I see far more of Jamie than I do of John.”

The grey head shook slowly. “Jamie is not in love with you,” her aunt said decisively. “He admires you, as any man must who is not stone blind, and I do not say that he would be averse to having an affair with you, were he presented with the opportunity, but he is not in love with you.” Katie stared at her aunt’s bold statement, and the shrewd eyes narrowed. “I hope that you had not assumed otherwise, Katherine.”

Katie shook her head, thinking there must be no end to the surprises her aunt had in store for her. “No,” she said, “I know just where Jamie stands.”

“You’re a very sensible girl,” said her aunt, and Katie made a grimace of doubt.

“I hope so,” she said, and added an ‘amen' in her mind.

To her relief the subject was dropped at that point and Katie gave a sigh of thankfulness, offering to cook dinner for them as a means of escape to the solitary confines of the kitchen.

At breakfast next morning Aunt Cora made further reference to the matter by enquiring if John was away as she had heard his car go off that morning very early.

“Mmm, I believe he is,” Katie said. “Fran said something about him going to London to see about some business or other.”

“Have you seen any of his work yet?” her aunt asked with deceptive quietness. “His paintings I refer to, of course.”

“No,” Katie raised querying brows. “He doesn’t like anyone looking at his painting—a lot of artists don’t like anyone to see unfinished work,” she said, “but I do know that he’s been working on something up on the cliff path ever since I first came,” she smiled wryly. “Judging by the time it’s taking to complete, it must be a masterpiece ! ”

“I am referring to a finished work,” Aunt Cora explained, rather complacently.

“No, I haven’t seen a finished one either,” Katie said, not a little puzzled at her aunt’s manner.

“Mrs. Clubb, my cleaning woman, has,” Aunt Cora said, and Katie remembered the taxi driver’s sister Alice, who ‘obliged’ her aunt and passed on scraps of gossip to her brother. So far she had always come to do her work when Katie was absent from the house, so that she had never seen her.

“So you told me,” Katie said, still puzzled. “You said that she told you he was a very good artist, I remember.”

“Seemingly he is,” Aunt Cora said complacently, and dropped her bombshell. “Mrs. Clubb says it is a very good likeness.”

“Of who?” Katie enquired, an uncomfortable suspicion forming. “Or should it be of whom ?”

“Of you,” her aunt said. “A full-size head and shoulders, and it is beautiful, so I’m told. I should be most interested to see it.”

Katie stared at her aunt wide-eyed. “Do you mean to say that he has it hanging in the house?” she asked, aghast at the trouble the garrulous Mrs. Clubb could cause with one careless word, or by spreading the information about the district, as she probably would. The ensuing gossip would not bear thinking about. Apart from that, the idea gave her a strange glow as she wondered when and, most important why, he had painted it.

“No,” her aunt admitted, “I gathered from reading between the lines, and from experience of Mrs. Clubb over the years, that the painting was stored in one of those canvas cases that artists use for carrying their work in. She opened the case to look at the contents, her reason being, so she claims, her love of art.”

“She had no right to do it!” Katie exclaimed angrily. “It’s shameful prying into people’s property like that.”

“Is is,” her aunt agreed. “But nevertheless, Katherine, it is interesting that he should have painted such a portrait without frequent sittings, if it is as good as Mrs. Clubb claims it is.”

Katie’s mind raced as she sought a logical explanation that would satisfy her aunt and at the same time she was curious to see the painting herself to judge its merits by her own standards. “It’s probably only a rough drawing,” she said uncertainly. “Having seen me at the Dennisons’ once or twice he may have drafted a basic sketch; a new face is always interesting to an artist,”

“Perhaps,” Aunt Cora admitted. “I have no way of knowing just what Mrs. Clubb’s standards are, but she was most insistent that it was a good likeness.” She tapped her nose thoughtfully. “I wonder just how one could approach the subject to Mr. Miller without revealing the source of information.”

“It’s well nigh impossible, I should say,” Katie said thankfully. “You could scarcely approach him and say that your communal cleaning woman had been prying into his things and could you see the picture of your niece. If,” she added hopefully, “it
is
a picture of me, of course; Mrs Clubb could be one of those people who can see a mother and child in a collection of coloured squares and dots.”

“You might be right, of course,” Aunt Cora said, “and it is impossible for me to ask about the painting. On the other hand,” she looked shrewdly at Katie, “you might perhaps ask to see some of his work and he may show it to you, as you’re a friend of the family.”

“He hardly counts as one of the family,” Katie said discouragingly. “If it was anyone else it would be simple, but not John; he’s independent of the others, a law unto himself, and he hates people trying to pry into his life.”

“Hmm,” Aunt Cora sounded unconvinced. “It seems a pity. If it is a good likeness I would have liked to have had it, but,” she spread her hands, resignedly, “in the circumstances—”

“It probably isn’t me at all,” Katie consoled her, thankful that she was not insistent.

“Perhaps not,” Aunt Cora admitted, but doubtfully, and Katie breathed her relief.

“If you’re sure I can’t stay with you today, Aunt Cora,” Katie said after a few' minutes, “I did promise Fran I’d go into Sea Bar with her for an hour or two.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aunt Cora smiled and patted her hand. ‘You have a lovely time, I don’t suppose I shall see you for lunch, so Bridie and I will sit comfortably in the shade and perhaps go for a short walk later.”

Katie dropped a kiss on the old lady’s cheek. “You two enjoy yourselves, too,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a hot journey. I do wish Jamie would trust Fran to drive his open car, it’s so much cooler.”

By coincidence Fran greeted her with a smile of triumph when she arrived at Coral House, a ring of keys dangling from one finger. “We’re going in Jamie’s monster,” she told Katie happily. “He’s not using it, so I put on a very appealing expression about how hot it was and how lovely and cool it would be in his car, and he weakened. Isn’t he a love?”

“He is,” Katie agreed wholeheartedly. “I must admit I wasn’t especially looking forward to a closed car today.”

“I’m having one of my own, soon,” Fran confided as they opened the doors of the garage and shooed a persistent Golly back into the house. “Janus says I deserve one now; I’ve driven his Humber scores of times without hitting anything and I’m a much more careful driver than Jamie.”

“You’re a very good driver,” Katie conceded. “I wish I could drive, but I just never learned.”

“It’s fun.” Fran climbed into the little car and reversed out of the garage, waited for Katie to join her, then sent them roaring down the drive to the quay. “I could teach you,” she offered as they turned on to the road, “or Jamie could. It’s quite easy really, and it’s very useful. I mean,” she enlarged, “if you ever needed a job, you could always be a chauffeuse to a millionaire.”

“What a marvellous idea!” Katie laughed. “I may take you up on that offer, Fran.”

Fran’s freckled face flicked a good-humoured glance at her passenger. “I should think you’d probably end by marrying the boss,” she said, tossing her long hair to the wind she was creating. “So just think of the chances you’re missing while you can’t drive.”

Katie usually enjoyed Fran’s company and the journey along the coast into Sea Bar was blessedly cool, so that both girls had wind-fresh cheeks when they arrived. Katie still had half her mind on the painting of her that her aunt had mentioned and was not as talkative as usual, but if Fran noticed she made no mention of it, but chattered quite happily herself. They found parking space in almost the same place as before and as they left the car Fran looked around. “We shan’t see la Barlow today,” she said. “She’s in London, busy being photographed, I suppose.”

“She must be pretty busy,” Katie said as they joined the crowded street. “Judging by the number of times she crops up in fashion pictures etcetera, I should think she gets very little time to spend in St. Miram.”

“Too much time,” Fran commented dryly. “But I suppose she needs to relax after all those hours under lights or whatever it is they do.”

“How long has she gone for this time?” Katie wondered if John’s absence was in any way connected with Eleanor Barlow’s return to London. Perhaps London was the centre where the contraband was disposed of, she thought.

“I wish I could say she’d gone for good,” Fran told her dolefully, “but I don’t suppose it’s for very long; it never is.”

“Is John in London, too?” Katie hoped the question sounded casual enough, and apparently it did, for Fran’s answer and question were straightforward enough, with no significant glances for company.

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Oh, Aunt Cora heard him go off early this morning,” Katie said, “and you told me he was going some time soon.”

“He comes and goes,” Fran said casually. “He’s got a business of some sort in London. I’ve never known what it is.”

“Haven’t you?” Katie’s surprise teased her and she pulled a face at her.

“I’m not nosey, Katie Roberts, that’s only a lie that Jamie made up about me because I asked too many awkward questions.” Fran scowled in mock indignation as she walked along. ‘You should be on my side. I suppose,” she asked blandly, “you don’t know what he does, do you?”

“Me?” Katie hoped her amazement sounded genuine. “Of course not. How would I know if you don’t?”

“Oh,” Fran shrugged, pushing back her long hair, “I thought Jamie may have told you.”

“Well, he hasn’t,” said Katie, “and if he told anyone it would be you, you silly goose, but he doesn’t know anyway.”

“You
did
ask, then?” Fran said triumphantly, her eyes dancing. “I’m not the only inquisitive female in Mare Green.”

“You’re not by a long way,” Katie said with feeling, thinking again of the prying Mrs. Clubb. “But I only asked casually one night when Jamie and I were talking; and if it’s any consolation to you, he as good as told me
I
was inquisitive, too.”

“Hmm,” Fran commented. “He would, men are never interested in anything, are they? They never ask questions about people. I like to know. It’s not nosiness, it’s interest, but they can’t see that.”

Katie thought she detected a recent lecture about curiosity behind her friend’s remarks, probably from her grandfather or perhaps John.

“They just don’t bother about things like we do,” Katie said consolingly as they turned into Barner’s, the huge, sumptuous store which was an Aladdin’s cave of good things and which gave the two of them endless pleasure. “Let’s not bother any more about them, let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

Fran insisted on walking the entire area of the china and glass department, admiring the exquisite delicacy of bone china and the jewel-coloured magic of Swedish glass until their senses whirled with the endless beauty of it. “Where to now?” Katie asked as they left the carpeted softness of the floor for the escalator which bore them swiftly upwards. “Can we look at the jewellery? It’s on this floor and I want to find a brooch for Aunt Cora, to go with her new dress.”

“This way, then.” Fran skirted a display of fine leather gloves and handbags, followed by Katie, who shopped with rather less purposeful certainty than her friend.

“There’s no rush,” she protested, hastily apologising to a stout woman in sleeveless cotton who had appeared from nowhere. “Slow down, Fran, we’ve got plenty of time to look round everywhere, haven’t we?”

“All the time in the world,” Fran agreed good-humouredly. “I just didn’t want us to get carried away and forget your aunt’s brooch.”

A suitable brooch was finally selected, after much consultation with both Fran and the patient saleswoman, and they departed, Katie pushing the little leatherette box into her handbag.

“I know it’s blazing hot and it’s the. wrong time of the year,” Fran said as they walked away from the counter, “but could we go and look at the furs?”

“If you want to,” said Katie, not very enthusiastically, “but I can’t think what for, unless you’re feeling the cold.”

“No, I’m not,” Fran said airily. “I just thought I’d like to look at furs, but we won’t go if you’d rather not.”

“Of course we will,” said Katie. “I can’t have my own way all the time, can I ?”

Another trip upwards on the escalator brought them into the hushed, cool atmosphere of the minks and sables. Not hung on racks as lesser garments were, but draped with casual elegance on disdainful plaster models that stood, aloof, at intervals over the carpeted area reserved for their display.

There were very few customers, which considering the time of year and the state of the weather was not surprising, but a man and a woman were standing before a model wearing a very expensive blue mink, and presumably admiring it, for the man was nodding his head in apparent agreement with something the woman was saying.

“Do you see what I see?” Fran whispered, nudging Katie with an elbow and making signs with her eyes towards the couple.

“Who?” Katie glanced at them and blinked her surprise. “Oh, Kuran Bey,” she said, her heart suddenly racing uncomfortably fast. “Your Arabian knight—yes, I see him.”

“He
is
rather gorgeous.” Fran cast admiring glances at the man’s profile. “Isn’t he, Katie?” She looked at the woman with him, her brows creased in a frown. Her legs were long and rather thin, well displayed by the brevity of her skirt; her arms, bare to the shoulder, a pale golden brown that contrasted well with the inky blackness of her hair.