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But Rosamund didn’t wait for him. She didn’t fancy even the short walk with him along the narrow footpath.

“He’s coming,” she told Miss Alice rather breathlessly, and a moment or so later John looked up in the doorway.

Miss Alice held out her hand to him.

“This is good of you, John! I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

“Not at all,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Obviously the most practical solution. Now, let’s study the situation— yes, I think I can scoop you up out of the chair and deposit you safely in bed if Rosamund steadies your plastered foot so that you don’t feel the weight of it and it doesn’t hit against anything. Ready, Rosamund?”

“Yes,” she said briefly.

Between them Miss Alice was settled as comfortably as possible in bed, and unconsciously, Rosamund gave a sigh of relief.

“Splendid!” Miss Alice said gratefully. “But I think I’ll read for a little till I get really drowsy, if you wouldn’t mind getting my book, dear. I left it on the table.”

Rosamund went to get it, but John didn’t follow her. He stood looking down at Miss Alice, his expression enigmatic. For a moment their eyes met. John gave a little exclamation and then, impulsively, bent down—and kissed her. A moment later he was gone, but when Rosamund returned, Miss Alice was smiling contentedly.

“I think I shall sleep quite well tonight," she said confidently.

“Yes, I quite agree, Alice, everything is going very smoothly,” Dr. Rob said. “All the same, the time is coming when you’ll have to leave here—and before very long at that. Autumn’s on the way—there’s a distinct chill in the air of a morning. If you were normally active, it wouldn’t matter too much, but you’re not, and the next thing will be that you start getting aches and pains that may not be so easy to get rid of. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

“Of course not,” Miss Alice admitted. “But it will be at least another month before the plaster can come off, and you know what they said at the hospital about keeping an eye on me—”

“And
you
know perfectly well that it can easily be arranged for the responsibility to be transferred to a London hospital. And that’s what’s going to happen,” Dr. Rob told her firmly. “No, it’s no good you sticking out your chin in that pugnacious way at me, my dear! I know what I’m talking about and you know I do. No matter what the circumstances, I can’t have you taking any more risks.”

Miss Alice was silent for a moment. Then she looked at him pleadingly.

“Give me another fortnight, Rob. Then I’ll do anything you say.”

“You will?” he looked at her keenly. “All right, on those terms—”

“Now I’ve let myself in for it,” she said resignedly. “And obviously you’ve got something up your sleeve. Out with it, Rob, let me know the worst!”

“I don’t want you to go to your flat,” Dr. Rob explained bluntly. “I want you to stay at mine so that I can keep an eye on you!”

“But Rob, my dear, that will never do!” she objected, a suggestion of unsteadiness in her voice. “What about your professional reputation? Even with Rosamund to chaperone us—”

For a moment Dr. Rob hesitated. Then he took her hand in his.

“There’d be no possibility of gossip, nor for that matter, any need for a chaperone,” he said gently, “if you could see your way to becoming my wife, Alice.”

When Rosamund heard the news she wasn’t surprised. Indeed, she had often wondered why two people, so obviously fond of one another and so admirably suited, hadn’t got married long ago. None the less, her feelings were mixed. For her father and Miss Alice she was unfeignedly glad, but she couldn’t help wondering just how their approaching marriage would affect her. It was true that they appeared to take it for granted that she would live with them and certainly the Harley Street flat was big enough to accommodate the three of them. But there were other considerations than those. Would she really fit in with their way of life or wouldn’t they be happier on their own? That Miss Alice would never do anything to make her feel unwelcome Rosamund was quite sure. She was far too nice a person for that. All the same, the constant presence of a grown-up stepdaughter could become irksome at times, particularly if, as Rosamund knew was the case where she was concerned, she wasn’t a happy person or one who had any real interests of her own.

That was the trouble. Her father and Miss Alice would feel obliged to include her in their activities—do their best to “take her out of herself”. And that, she was sure, must inevitably restrict their freedom and might even mar their late-found happiness.

And then, from her own point of view, it would be a strain to live with people, however dear, who were always anxious on her behalf. It meant keeping up appearances, and that Rosamund knew would be extremely difficult in her present mood.

She was restless—restless and unsure of herself. She didn’t know what she wanted—a fresh start, but one that wasn’t haunted by memories? But that was impossible, as impossible as she still felt it to be that there could be any future for John and herself.

John. He was the stumbling block. Her forehead puckered at the thought of him. He had spoken of the chance that luck had given him, and of his intention to make the most of it. But he had done nothing to substantiate that threat. True, he was always available if he was needed in any way, and occasionally, particularly at the weekends when Dr. Rob came down, he would have tea with them. But that was all. He never sought her out, never tried to be alone with her and rarely spoke to her except when conversation was general. They might just have been newly met acquaintances instead of what they really were.

At first it hadn’t seemed to make sense. Then, gradually, she realised what John was doing. He was giving her the onus of making the first step towards reconciliation.

“But I won’t do it,” she told herself mutinously. “It would be almost as if I was to blame if I did. And I wasn’t, I wasn’t! It was his fault. And why should I risk being hurt all over again? Oh, I shall be thankful when we’ve left here and he can’t be always—always hovering in the background like a storm that may break at any moment! Well, it won’t be long now!”

But before they did leave, several things were to happen. To begin with, Dr. Rob insisted that they should get married before he and Miss Alice left for London, and although she protested that nobody ever heard of a bride going to her wedding in an invalid chair, she gave in when he told her firmly that even if she’d been a stretcher case, they’d get married just as he planned.

But he did agree that it should be a very quiet wedding. In fact, he pointed out, there was no need for anyone but John and Rosamund to be present as the necessary witnesses.

Rosamund’s heart sank at the prospect. How could she leave the past behind when everything—and sometimes she felt, everybody—conspired to remind her of it? The same words, the same vows that she and John had spoken such a short time ago—she couldn’t refuse, of course, but surely John could? She keyed herself up to ask what was practically a favour of him, but John shook his head.

“Sorry, Rosamund, but that’s out of the question. For one thing, it’s the simplest arrangement and consequently, the best for Miss Alice. But apart from that, I’ve no wish or intention of hurting their feelings by refusing.”

“Oh well, if that’s how you feel about it, there’s nothing more to be said ! ” she said frostily.

“But there is,” John told her imperatively. “It’s going to be
their
day. Nothing should be allowed to spoil it. So will you bury the hatchet for the occasion? Without prejudice, of course.”

Rosamund hesitated. Put that way, it was difficult to refuse, as he was perfectly aware. So, though she had the uneasy feeling that he was forcing her hand, she agreed—but with mental reservations.

Rosamund came back from what would be her last visit to the shop to see a stranger pacing impatiently up and down the little deck of the
Seven Stars.
She wondered vaguely who he was, but after all, what business was it of hers? She turned along the towpath only to be hailed by the visitor.

“Hi, there! Any idea when Lindsay will be back?”

Rosamund glanced over her shoulder.

“Not ’the least,” she said indifferently, and went on walking.

But she didn’t escape as easily as that. The man not only followed her along the path, he somehow managed to get past her so that she could go no further. She felt uneasy. He looked quite respectable, but none the less, he was obviously worked up about something. And since her father had taken Miss Alice to the hospital for a last check-up, there was no one she could summon.

“Now, listen,” the man said urgently. “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, but I’ve
got
to see Lindsay. I’ve written half a dozen times, but he simply doesn’t answer. And I’m getting worried. My name's Rutherford, by the way. I’m his publisher—or his would-be publisher, I should say,” he added grimly.

“Oh, I see,” Rosamund said with relief. “But I’m sorry, it doesn’t make any difference. I’ve no idea how long Mr. Lindsay will be. I didn’t even know he’d gone anywhere.”

“Oh, confound it ” There was unmistakable chagrin in Mr. Rutherford’s voice. “That’s tom it I suppose he might not even be coming back at all today.”

“I don’t know,” Rosamund told him firmly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait a minute!” He pondered, frowning. “Look here, do you live on one of the other boats?”

“On the
Pride of London,"
Rosamund admitted, nodding in its direction. “But—”

“Well, surely, living in such a small community, you must all be on friendly terms—it would be intolerable not to be. So you must know something of one another’s affairs. Surely you can tell me, for instance, if he’s writing or not?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Sure?”

“My father asked him the same question a few days ago,” Rosamund explained. “And that was what Mr. Lindsay said.”

And again she felt the unwelcome little stab that John’s admission had caused her. He had said it with no show of emotion whatever, but perhaps, just because of that, it hadn’t been difficult for her to appreciate why that creative gift of his had failed him. He simply hadn’t the heart to write. And she knew why— .

“Oh, damn!” Mr. Rutherford sighed gustily. “And all because he was fool enough to marry a twitter-pate of a woman who hadn’t the sense to recognise genius when she met it!”

“Genius!” Rosamund repeated, too startled by his use of such a superlative description to give any thought to his unflattering description of herself.

“Downright genius—and I know what I’m talking about,” Mr. Rutherford insisted didactically. “Generally speaking, a publisher doesn’t hope for too much because he knows he won’t get it anyhow. If you could see some of the drivel I get—that doesn’t get into print, of course. No, what any publisher goes for is the reasonably sound book that will earn him—and the author, of course—a decent profit. But just now and again something so good turns up that one feels the age of miracles hasn’t passed. Lindsay’s is the first manuscript that’s come my way about which I can say that for years. But it’s incomplete. And now you tell me he’s stopped writing!” He brooded for a while and then said suddenly: “This girl he married—she’s not one of the set he used to run around with. Dropped out of that some time ago. D’you know anything about her? Did he meet her down here?”

“I really can’t discuss Mr. Lindsay’s affairs,” Rosamund told him frigidly. “And now—”

“I think he must have done, you know,” Mr. Rutherford went on broodingly. “Probably fell for her because he thought she didn’t know about his money—he’s extremely well off, you know—only to find that she’d known all along and kept quiet about it until she’d got him safely hooked—”

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Rosamund burst out furiously. “His money had nothing to do—” she stopped short, realising that Mr. Rutherford was looking at her intently through narrowed eyes.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” he commented. “I suppose, by any chance, you don’t happen to be the girl in question, do you?”

“Yes,” Rosamund said briefly.

“Well, well, well! Quite a coincidence! Odd, though, because you don’t look the nitwit, gold-digging type.”

“I told you—”

“So you did,” Mr. Rutherford nodded. “And as it happens, I believe you, though Lindsay may not have done. Was that it?” He paused expectantly.

“Mr. Rutherford, you really can’t expect me—”

“No, I suppose I can’t,” he agreed with a sigh. “Well, never mind. It’s the fact that matters, not the cause. You and he have parted brass rags—”

“Who told you that?” Rosamund interrupted. “John?”

“I told you, I haven’t seen him or heard from him since our first meeting. And in any case, surely you know him better than that! He’s not the sort to go about snivelling that he’s been hurt—and he
has
been. Why else has he stopped writing? Any chance of you making it up? No?” as Rosamund shook her head. “Pity. All that lost talent—” Silence fell between them. Then, squaring his shoulders, Mr. Rutherford returned to the attack.

“Look, my dear,” he said kindly. “It’s very clear that you’ve been hurt as well. But don’t you think it’s possible that there were faults on both sides? There almost always are, you know. And one has one’s pride about being the first to apologise. I know. I’ve been through it. Most of us have, one way and another. But you, being a woman, haven’t got the same stiff-necked attitude about admitting you were in the wrong that a man has. Make the first move, my dear. I don’t think you’ll regret it—”

He laid his hand gently on Rosamund’s shoulder, but when she made no response, he said briskly:

“In that case, I can see nothing for it but to let John speak for himself! Here—” He dropped his hand from her shoulder and unzipped the briefcase he was carrying. “This is a copy of what he’s written so far! Read it—and you’ll have some idea of the man you’ve married!” He thrust the bundle of typescript into her arms and Rosamund stood aside to let him pass.