CHAPTER IX

Alang the Roman Waal, Alang the Roman Waal,

The Roman ways in bygone days are terrible to recaal.

NORMAN TURNBUIX : Northumbrian Song.

JULIE arrived just before tea on a drowsy afternoon. Everywhere was the smell of hay, and the meadowsweet was frothing out along the ditches. The sound of the distant tractor was as much a part of the hot afternoon as the hum of the bees in the roses. It made the sound of the approaching car unnoticeable, till Lisa looked up from the table where she and I had been slicing and buttering scones for the men's tea, and said: "There's a car just stopped at the gate. It must be Julie." She bit at her lower lip. "I wonder who can be bringing her? She must have got Bill Fenwick to meet her train." I set down my knife rather too carefully. She gave me one of her thoughtful, measuring looks. "I shouldn't worry. This'll be nothing, after the rest."

"I'm not worrying."

She regarded me a moment longer, then nodded, with that little close-lipped smile of hers. In my two-days'

sojourn at Whitescar, Lisa seemed to have got over her odd fit of nerves. Indeed, she had taken my advice to her so much to heart that sometimes I had found myself wondering, but only momentarily, if she really had managed to persuade herself that I was Annabel. At any rate she seemed to have adopted me as genuine; it was a sort of coloration for herself.

"I'll go out and meet her," she said. "Are you coming?"

"I'll let you meet her first. Go ahead."

I followed her down the flagged passage to the back door, and waited there, just in the door's shadow, while she went out into the sunlight.

Julie was at the wheel of an open car, a battered relic almost as old as she was, carefully hand-enamelled a slightly smeared black, and incongruously decorated in dazzling chrome—at least, that was the impression one got—with gadgets of blatant newness and dubious function. Julie dragged ineffectually at the hand-brake, allowing the car to slide to a stop at least four yards further on, then hurled herself out of the door without even troubling to switch off the engine.

"Lisa! What heaven 1 We've had the most sweltering run! Thank God to be here, and I can smell new scones. How's Grandfather? Has she come? My dear, you don't mind Donald, I hope? It's his car and he wouldn't let me drive because he says I'm the world's ghastliest driver, but he had to at the end because I wouldn't get out and open the gates. I asked him to stay —I hope you don't mind? He can have the old nursery and I'll do every stroke of the work myself. Has she come?"

She had on a white blouse, and a blue skirt belted tightly to a slim waist with a big leather belt the colour of new horse-chestnuts. Their simplicity did nothing to disguise the fact that they were expensive. Her hair, which was fair and fine, shone in the sun almost as pale as cotton-floss, and her eyes were grey-green, and very clear, like water. Her face was tanned golden, and her arms and legs, which were bare, showed the same smooth, amber tan. A heavy gold bracelet gave emphasis to one slim wrist. She was holding Lisa's hands, and laughing. She hadn't kissed her, I noticed. The ecstasy of welcome was not personally for Lisa, but was so much a part of Julie's own personality that it sprang, as it were, unbidden. Fountains overflow. If people are near enough, the drops fall on them, sparkling. She dropped Lisa's hands then, and turned, with a swirl of her blue skirt, towards the man whom I now noticed for the first time. He had been shutting the yard gate behind the car. Now, before responding to Julie's hail of "Donald! Come and meet Lisa!" he walked quietly across to where the car stood, with her chrome glittering in the sun as she shook to the vibrations of the engine. He switched the engine off, took out the key, put it carefully into his pocket, and then approached, with a slightly diffident air that was in startling contrast to Julie's ebullience.

I found later that Donald Seton was twenty-seven, but he looked older, having that rather solemn, withdrawn look that scholarship sometimes imposes on the natural reserve of the Scot. He had a long face, with high cheekbones, and eyes set well under indecisively-marked brows. The eyes were of indeterminate hazel, which could look shallow or brilliant according to mood. They were, indeed, almost the only inclination that Donald Seton ever varied his moods. His face seldom changed from its rather watchful solemnity, except to let in, like a door opening on to bright light, his rare and extremely attractive smile. He had fine, straight hair that refused discipline, but tumbled forward in a thick mouse-brown thatch that showed reddish lights in the sun. His clothes were ancient and deplorable, and had never, even in their fairly remote past, been 'good'. They reminded me somehow of his car, except that his person was not ornamented to a similar extent. He was the kind of man who would, one felt, have stigmatised even the most modest brand of Fair Isle as "a bit gaudy". He looked clever, gentle, and about as mercurial as the Rock of Gibraltar. He made a most remarkable foil for Julie.

She was saying, with that same air of delighted improvisation: "Lisa, this is Donald. Donald Seton. Darling, this is Lisa Dermott; I told you, she's a kind of cousin, and she's the most dreamy cook, you've no idea I Lisa, he can stay, can't he? Where have you put her}"

"Well, of course he may," said Lisa, but looking faintly taken aback. "How do you do? Have you really driven Julie all the way up from London? You must both be tired, but you're just in time for tea. Now, Mr.—Seton, was it?—"

"Didn't Grandfather tell you?" cried Julie. "Well, really, and he's always jumping on me for being scatter-brained I told him on the phone that Donald was bringing me I Why, it was the whole point of my coming now, instead of August, or almost, anyway. Donald's the most terrific big bug in Roman Remains, or whatever you call it, and he's come to work up at West Wood-burn where there's a Roman camp—"

"Fort," said Mr. Seton.

"Fort, then, isn't it the same thing? Anyway," said Julie eagerly, "I thought if I came now, I'd be up here when he was, and be here for the birthday party Grandfather's talking about, and anyway, June's a heavenly month and it always rains in August. Has she come?"

For once, Lisa's not very expressive face showed as a battleground of emotions. I could see relief at Julie's gay insouciance about her reasons for coming to Whitescar and the birthday party; avid curiosity and speculation about Donald; apprehension over the coming meeting between Julie and myself; pure social embarrassment at having another visitor foisted on her without notice, and a swift, house-proud calculation that she would manage this, as she managed everything. Besides—I could sec her assessing the smile Julie flung at Donald—it might be worth it.

"Of course we can put you up, easily," she said, warmly, for her. "No, no, it doesn't matter a bit, there's always room, and any friend of Julie's—"

"It's very good of you, but I really wouldn't dream of putting you to the trouble." Mr. Seton spoke with a quiet lack of emphasis that was as definite as a full stop. "I've explained to Julie that I'll have to stay near my work. I'll be camping up there on the site, when the students come, but for a night or two, at any rate, the hotel expects me."

"Ah well," said Lisa, "if that's what you've arranged. But of course you'll stay and have tea?"

"Thank you very much. I should like to."

"That's absurd!" cried Julie. "Donald, I told you, it would be much nicer staying here. You don't have to do the polite and refuse just because Grandfather forgot to tell Lisa you were coming, for goodness' sake I As a matter of fact I may have forgotten to tell Grandfather, but then I was so excited about Annabel and then it was three minutes and it's a call-box in my digs and you know Grandfather's always been as mean as stink about reversing the charges. Anyway, Donald, darling, you can't possibly camp at West Woodburn, it's the last place, and I've seen that site of yours; there are cows. And you've got to escape your dreary old Romans sometimes, so obviously you'll stay here. That's settled, then. Lisa, I can't bear it another moment. Where is she?"

I hadn't moved from the shadows of the passage. But the fraction before Julie turned, Donald looking past her shoulder, saw me standing there. I had been prepared for surprise, shock, even, in the recognition of everyone who had known Annabel before, but the amazement in Donald Seton's eyes jolted me, until I realised that, to him, I was a ghost of Julie. The look went, banished from his eyes immediately, but I wondered just what he had seen; a Julie grown older, thinner; not greyer, that would have been absurd, but somehow greyed? The eight years were dry in my throat, like dust. Julie had seen me. I saw her eyes widen, then the same look spring in them., I came out into the sunlight. "Annabel" For a moment she stayed poised, as it seemed, between welcome and something else. The moment hung suspended for ever, like the wave before it breaks. I thought, Lisa was wrong, this is the worst yet: I can't bear it if she hates me, and God knows, she may be the one to have the right.

"Annabel, darling I" said Julie, and dived straight into my arms and kissed me. The broken wave washed over me; the salt drops tingled and smarted in my eyes. She was laughing and hugging me and holding me away from her and talking, and the moments slid past with all the other moments, and was gone.

"Annabel, you devil, how could you, it's been such hell, and we were so unhappy. Oh, I could kill you for it, I really could. And I'm so thankful you're not dead because now I can tell you. That's the worst of people dying, they get away . . . Oh, lord, I'm not crying—these must be those tears of joy they always shed like mad in books, only I've never believed them . . . Oh, it's terrific, it really is! You've come back!" She gave me a little shake. "Only say something, darling, for pity's sake, or I will think you're a ghost!" I noticed that Donald had turned away, tactfully to examine the side of the Dutch barn. Since this was made of corrugated iron, it could hardly be said to provide an absorbing study for an archaeologist; but he seemed to be finding it quite fascinating. Lisa had withdrawn a little behind Julie, but she was watching unashamedly.

I looked at Julie, feeling suddenly helpless. What was there to

say, after all?

I cleared my throat, smiled uncertainly, and said the only thing that came into my head. "You—you've grown." "I suppose I have," said Julie blankly.

Then we both laughed, the laughter perhaps a little high and over-pitched. I could see Lisa^ looking at me with her mouth slightly open. It came to me suddenly that she was staggered and dismayed at the ineptitude with which I was playing this scene; all the more feeble since she had seen the way I dealt with Grandfather. As far as it was possible for me to do so at that moment, I felt amused. Of course there was nothing to say. Here at least, Lisa was a bad psychologist. What did she expect me to do? Make a charmingly social occasion out of this? My part in the scene had been far more convincing than she knew. The next second, uncannily, Julie was echoing my thought. "You know, isn't it silly? I've noticed it before, about meeting anyone one hasn't seen for a long time. You long and long for the moment, like mad, and then, when it comes, and you've got the first hullos said, there's nothing whatever to say. All that come later, all the where have you been and how did you get on? stuff. For the moment, it's quite enough to have you here. You do understand, don't you?"

"Of course, I'm just thanking heaven you do. I—I can't think of much in the way of conversation, myself." I smiled at her, and then at Donald, now gravely waiting on the outskirts of the conversation. "I'm still English enough to regard tea as a sort of remedy for any crisis. Shall we go in and have it? How do you do, Mr. Seton?"

"Oh, lord, I'm sorry," said Julie, and hastily made the introduction. "Only for pity's sake call him Donald, everybody does, at least, everybody he likes, and if he doesn't like them, he never speaks to them at all, which comes to the same thing."

I laughed as I shook hands with him. "It sounds a marvellous way of getting along."

"It works," said Donald.

"Oh," said Julie, at my elbow. "Donald has his very own way of getting through life with the minimum of trouble to himself."

I glanced at her quickly. Nothing in Donald's expression showed me whether this was intended to have a sharp edge to it, or anything in Julie's for that matter. She looked very lovely and gay, and she was laughing at him.

She thrust an arm into mine. "Where's Grandfather? Surely he's not up in the field in this weather. It's far too hot,"

"He's lying down. He does every afternoon now."

"Does he? I mean, does he have to?"

Lisa had gathered Donald up, so to speak, and, with the usual polite murmur about washing his hands before tea, was shepherding him ahead of us towards the house.

I said: "It's only a precaution. He has to be careful. He might be risking another stroke if he did anything too energetic, or had any sort of an upset. Go gently with him, Julie. I think my coming back has been a bit of a strain, but he's taken it remarkably well."

"And Con?" The sideways glance was disconcertingly shrewd.

I said lightly: "He's taken it very well, too." I wondered, by no means for the first rime, how much the eleven-year-old Julie had known about her cousin's disappearance. "You'll see him later. I imagine he'll take his tea up in the field with the men."

"Are you going to take it up? I'll help if you like, or we can make Donald come and carry everything—you don't exactly look as if you ought to be hiking loads around in this heat, if I may say so. What on earth have you been doing to yourself, you look so thin, and your figure used to be heaven, at least / thought so, which might mean anything, because when I was eleven my ideal was the Angel Gabriel and they're not supposed to have figures anyway, are they?"

"Julie! At least you didn't piffle on at that rate when you were eleven, or if you did, I don't remember it I Where on earth did you learn?"

Julie laughed. "Donald."

"That I don't believe."

"Well, he never speaks at all unless it's necessary, so I have to do enough for two on one person's sense. Result, naif my talk is piffle, whereas Donald's silence is a hundred per cent solid worth. Or would it be two hundred per cent? I never know."

"I see."

"And there was you." "I?"

"Yes. Nobody could piffle quite so well. The stories you used to make up. I can still remember them, and the funny thing is, a lot of them seemed somehow more real than you, or at any rate they seemed the reallest part of you."

"Perhaps they were."

She gave me a swift look as we went into the house, and squeezed my arm. "When you look like that you break my heart."

"I don't see why."

"You look unhappy, that's why. Whenever you're not actually smiling. It's just a look you have. It's not like you ... I mean, you weren't like that before."

"I meant, I don't see why you should worry over the way I feel."

"Don't you?"

"No. Why should you care what happened to me? I lighted out regardless, didn't I? And now I come back, like a ghost to trouble sleep. Why should you care?"

The grey-green eyes were open and candid as a child's. "Because I love you, of course," said Julie, quite simply.

The passage was dim after the glare of the sun. I was glad of this. In a moment I said, lightly: "Better than the Angel Gabriel?"

She laughed. "Oh, he stopped being top pop, years ago. Much better."

•

•

•

In a way, Julie's homecoming was as exacting as my own.

Mrs. Bates was, inevitably, lying in wait in the kitchen: "And very nice it is to see you, Julie, and very smart you're looking, quite London, I'm sure. A real shame I call it, the way they make you work at the B.B.C.—not a chance to come up and see your poor Granda, not to mention others as I could name what would have liked a sight of you any time this past year. But there it is, birds leave the nest, which you might say is only natural, and them that is left has only to lump it, as the saying goes . . . And that was your young man that went through with Miss Dermott? 'Not official?' And what does that mean, may I ask? In my day, if we were courting, we knew we was courting, and believe me, we knew just where we was. Now don't you bother, Miss Annabel, love. Cora's taking the men's tea up, which you may be sure ain't no bother for her, seeing as Willie Latch is along helping this afternoon. Go on in, then. I'll bring the trolley as soon as the tea's massed, if you'll take the cake-stand ..."

Then there was Con, who came down unexpectedly from the hayfield, ostensibly impatient to welcome Julie, but curious, I knew, to see who had driven her down.

It was amusing to watch the meeting between him and Donald. We were quietly settled, waiting for Mrs. Bates and the tea-trolley, when Con walked in. He had presumably conformed by washing his hands, but he was still in his working clothes—old breeches, and a white shirt, short-sleeved and open at the neck. He brought with him, into the rather charmingly old-fashioned room, the smell of sunshine and hay, and—it must be confessed—a faint tang of horses and outdoor, sunbaked sweat. He looked magnificent He greeted Donald with none of the curiosity that I knew he was feeling. If he had been wondering about Julie's new escort as a potential threat to his own position, the worry, I could see, was dispelled as soon as he entered the room, and saw the unobtrusive figure sitting quietly in the old-fashioned chintz-covered chair by the fireplace. I could also see, quite well, that he was pleased—as Donald rose to greet him—to find himself the taller of the two by at least three inches. The contrast between the two men was certainly remarkable, and I saw an odd expression in Julie's eyes as she watched them. Lisa's face, for once, was much more transparent: one almost expected to hear the proud, contented clucking with which the mother-hen regards the swan that she has just personally hatched. The only person in the room who seemed unconscious of Con's overwhelming physical splendour was Donald. He greeted the other man serenely, and then turned back to resume his conversation with me.

Grandfather came in then, followed immediately by Mrs. Bates with the tea. The old man was using a stick, which I hadn't seen him do before, and I thought he looked more finely-drawn than usual, with a waxy tinge to the skin.

"Grandfather, it's lovely to see you!" Julie, as she rose to greet him, gave him a fond, anxious look. "How are you?"

"Hra. You've controlled your anxiety remarkably well, haven't you? How long is it since you were here?

Twelve months?"

"Only ten," said Julie. "Grandfather, this is Donald Seton. He's a London friend of mine who drove me up, such luck, and he's going to be up here all summer, working at West Woodburn?"

"How d'ye do? Good of you to bring the child. Glad you could stay to tea. Working at West Woodburn, eh? What sort of work?"

As Donald answered, 1 noticed that Con, ostensibly talking to

Julie, was listening carefully. Mrs. Bates, lingering beside Lisa, hadn't taken her eyes off Donald.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates," said Lisa, pouring tea. "That's everything, I think . . . Annabel, I wonder if you'd help hand the cups?"

"Let me, please," said Donald quickly, getting to his feet. Con slanted a lazy look up at him, and stayed where he was.

Lisa—with great restraint—poured tea for Julie and Grandfather before she attended to Con, but when she did come to Con's cup, I noticed that she not only put sugar in, but even stirred it, before giving it to Donald to hand to him. Donald carried it across with no change of expression, and Con took it without even looking away from Julie, who was telling some story or other which involved a lot of laughter. Mrs. Bates had made no move to go, but busied herself rather ostentatiously, handing scones. The little black eyes had never left Donald.

"London, eh?" This came as soon as he left his chair, and was detached, so to speak, from Grandfather's orbit. "So you've come up north for the summer, from what I hear?"

"Yes."

"And what d'you think of the North?" This in the tone of a champion throwing down a rather well-worn glove. "I suppose you Londoners think we've not even got electric light in these parts yet?"

"Haven't you?" said Donald, startled into a vague glance at the ceiling. I said quickly: "Mrs. Bates regards all Londoners as ignorant southerners who think the Arctic Circle begins at Leeds, or something."

"One wonders," put in Julie from the sofa, "if they mayn't be right, sometimes. Not this year, it's been heaven everywhere!*

"Even here?" said Grandfather, rather drily.

I saw a glance pass, like a spark across points, between Con and Lisa.

I said quickly: "Betsy, dear, Mr. Seton isn't a southerner, really; he's from Scotland."

"Oh?" She appeared only slightly mollified. "I've never been up in them parts. But you live in London, like?"

"Yes, I've got rooms there. But I usually spend die summer somewhere out on a—well, in the country. This year I'm at

West Woodburn."

"For the whole summer?" I hoped the calculating glance that Mrs. Bates shot at Julie wasn't as obvious to him as it was to me. But she underlined it. "How long are you staying, Julie?"

"Mm?" Julie had been laughing at some remark of Con's. "Who, me? As long as I can. I've got three weeks."

"Mrs. Bates," said Lisa, "there's the telephone, I think. Do you mind? . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Seton, but she's been a member of the family for so long, and of course she's known Julie since she was very small ... I think she puts all Julie's friends into the same age-group."

"And that," said Julie cheerfully, "stays at about thirteen phis. Donald doesn't mind, do you, darling?"

"Not in the least." Mr. Seton, who had, during the cross-examination, been handing sandwiches and scones round with unruffled good humour, now sat down, and took one himself-Somehow, I noticed, the stand of sandwiches and cakes had finished up in a position mid-way between his chair and mine, and within easy reach of both. No mean strategist, I thought, watching him finish his sandwich, and quietly take another. They were very good; I had made them myself.

"Now," said Grandfather, who, being a Winslow male, obviously thought it was time he was back in the centre of the stage, "about this Roman camp at West Woodburn . .."

"Fort, actually," said Donald.

"Fort, then. Habitancium, isn't that the Roman name for it?"

"Habitancum." Donald took another sandwich in an absent sort of way, while managing to keep a keenly interested gaze fixed on his questioner. "That's the name on the various inscriptions that have been uncovered. There are no other references, and the place is named solely from the inscriptions, so, in fact," that sudden, charming smile, "your guess is as good as mine, sir."

"Oh. Ah. Well, what I want to know is this—" But Mrs. Bates, laden with more scones, and big with news, re-entered the room briskly.

"The way things get around in these parts is like magic, it is that. Here's Julie only been at home five minutes before her young man's ringing her up on the phone. He's waiting." She slapped the plate of scones down on the trolley, and stared pointedly at Julie.

The latter looked blank for a moment, then I saw the faintest tinge of pink slide up under her skin.

"My—young man?"

"Aye," said Mrs. Bates a little sourly. "Young Bill Fenwick from Nether Shields. Saw you pass, he says, when they was working up near the road."

"Young Fenwick?" said Grandfather. "Nether Shields? What's this? What's this?"

"I've no idea." Julie spoke airily, setting down her cup. "Did he say it was for me?"

"He did, and well you know it. Never talked about anyone else since last time you were here, and if you ask me—"

"Oh, Mrs. Bates, please!" Julie, scarlet now, almost ran out of the drawing-room. Mrs. Bates gave a ferocious nod that was aimed somewhere between Grandfather and Donald. "He's a nice lad, Bill Fenwick is, but he's not for the likes of her, and that's the truth and no lie!"

"Mrs. Bates, you really mustn't—" began Lisa.

"I speak as I find," said that lady tartly.

"Hm," said Grandfather. "Pity you find such a lot. That'll do, now, Betsy. Go away."

"I'm going. Enjoy your teas, now, I made those scones meself. You'll not get the likes of them in London," with a nod at Donald, "nor in Scodand, neither, let me tell you. Now, did I see that cat come in or did I not?"

"Cat?" said Lisa. "Tommy? Oh, no, surely not, he's never allowed in here."

"I thought I seed him run past when I opened the door."

"Nonsense, Betsy, you're imagining things." Grandfather was poking about testily under the sofa with his stick. "There's no cat in here. Don't make excuses> now, just go away, do. The scones are excellent. Perhaps you'll get Julie to bring the hot water in, when she's finished her telephone call?"

"All right," said Mrs. Bates, unoffended. "There's nobody can say I can't take a hint as well as anyone." But, pausing at the door, she fired her last shot. "Mr. Forrest, too, did I tell you? He's back already. Didn't expect him till Friday, but he's flown. Maybe he'll be on the phone soon." And, with a chuckle, she disappeared.

There was a pause.

"Ah, well," said Con, reaching out a lazy hand, "the scones are worth it."

"Hm," said Grandfather, "she's all right. Trust Betsy with my last halfpenny, and that's a thing you can't say of many, nowadays. Now, Seton, where were we?"

"Habitancum," said Con, "just about to start digging."

"Ah, yes. Well, what are you going to find? Tell me that? If there's anything worth finding round here, I wish you digging Johnnies would find it at Whitescar. No likelihood of that I suppose?" I saw a sudden look of surprise flicker over Donald's face, to be followed by what looked like rather furtive embarrassment. Grandfather, drinking tea, hadn't noticed, but Con had. I saw his eyes narrow momentarily in a speculative look. Then I saw what was hidden from anyone else in the room. Donald's hand, with a portion of ham sandwich, had been hanging down over the arm of his chair while he talked. The skirts of his armchair almost touched the ground. From under the edge of this crept a stealthy, black and white paw, which once again patted the edge of the ham sandwich,

"There's nothing marked hereabouts on any existing map," said Donald, now serenely ignoring this phenomenon, "but that's not to say there was nothing here, of course. If you start turning up Roman coins with the plough, sir, I hope you'll send straight for me." As he spoke, he had returned the sandwich to the plate, and then his hand went, oh, so idly, over the arm of the chair, holding a substantial portion broken off. The paw flashed out and took it, not too gently. Tommy, it appeared, had had to learn to snatch what bits he got.

"And how long are you to be here?"

"Possibly until August, on this particular job."

"I doubt," said Con with a grin, "if we'll be doing much ploughing before you go, then,"

"No?" said Donald, adding, apologetically, "I'm afraid I'm very ignorant. Your—er, Mrs. Bates was perhaps not so far out in her judgment of Londoners."

"Well," said Grandfather, "if you can tell wheat and barley apart, which I've no doubt you can, then you'll be one up on me and Connor. I wouldn't know a Roman inscription from a whisky advertisement, and neither would he."

Con's protest, and my "Are you sure?" came simultaneously, and everyone laughed. Into the laughter came Julie, so blandly unconcerned, and so fussily careful of the hot-water-jug she was carrying, that the attention of everyone in the room switched straight to her with an almost audible click. It was all Con could do, I knew, not to ask her outright what Bill Fenwick had had to say.

"Julie?" Old Mr. Winslow had no such inhibitions. "What did the boy want?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Julie airily, "just how was I and how long was I here for, and—and all that."

"Hm. Well, now, let's have a look at you, child. Come and sit by me. Now, about this job of yours..." Conversation began to flow again, Con and Lisa both listening with some interest to Julie's account of her first year's work at Broadcasting House. Beside me, the skirts of Donald's chair began to shake in a frustrated fashion. I said gently: "Won't you have another sandwich, Mr. Seton? These are crab. They— er, go down rather well."

I saw the glimmer in his eyes as he took one. Half a minute later I saw the paw field a piece, very smartly, and, in a matter of three-quarters of a second, come out for more. Tommy, flown with good living, was getting reckless.

"You're not eating anything," Lisa said to me. "Have another sandwich. There's one left." Even as she turned to look, the paw shot out, and the last of the crab sandwiches vanished, whole, from the plate on the bottom tier of the trolley.

"I'm so sorry," said Donald, blandly, to me. "I took it myself. Have a macaroon."