An Unlikely Romance. Бетти Нилс

and butter and marmalade. She took the lot back on a tray and got into bed and several of her friends poked their heads round the door on their way to their own breakfast to wish themselves in her place and ask what she was going to do with her day.

      Yesterday still loomed large in her thoughts; she hadn’t given a thought to today. ‘Nothing—just potter. Do some window-shopping and be back here for tea, most likely.’

      ‘How about the flicks this evening?’ asked Lucy. ‘See you then.’

      There wasn’t any point in lying in bed once she had gobbled up her bread and butter. She got up again and dressed and presently left Timothy’s and got a bus bound for Regent Street. The rush-hour was over but there were plenty of shoppers strolling from one window to the next. Trixie joined them, her small nose close to the glass, lost in a pleasant dream wherein she was able to buy anything she wanted without having to bear in mind the fact that it would have to last for a year or two. If she married the professor—she repeated the ‘if’ to herself—presumably she would be able to indulge her taste to a certain extent. She supposed that he was fairly well-off and she would have an allowance for clothes. Aunt Alice did; so did Margaret.

      She wandered along and turned into Bond Street, peering at the exquisite clothes in the boutiques and wondering if he would see her that evening. He had told her that he would be busy all day, but surely he would be free later in the day? Perhaps he would take her to his home again and they would have dinner together—the duck had been delicious… She suddenly felt hungry and the sight of a small café down a side street sent her hurrying to it. She hadn’t much money—pay-day was still a week away—but she ordered coffee and a bun and then, refreshed, continued her window-shopping until it was time to go to Oxford Street and buy herself lunch in the cafeteria in BHS. There was still the afternoon to fill in. She took a bus to the National Gallery and wandered around the galleries studying the paintings. There weren’t many people there and she went from one vast room to the next, a small lonely figure but quite content. She had always hoped that she would meet a man she would love and want to marry, but she hadn’t had much hope of doing so and certainly had had little hope of any man wanting to marry her; now her dearest dream had come true. Suddenly anxious to get back to Timothy’s in case he was looking for her, she joined a bus queue and went back to Regent Street and then caught another bus to Timothy’s.

      It was dusk already and there was a damp mist. The many lights shining from Timothy’s’ windows merely served to show up the shabbiness of the surrounding streets. Trixie hardly noticed that; she bounced through the entrance doors and started across the hall towards the nurses’ home entrance. She was passing the porter’s lodge when Murgatroyd, the head porter, put his head through the little window.

      ‘Nurse Doveton? There’s a letter for you.’

      She recognised the almost illegible writing on the envelope. It was the same scrawl as his signature on the forms she had so often been bidden to take to various departments. She beamed at Murgatroyd, wished him a good evening, and sped to her room, already wondering what to wear.

      The note, when she opened the envelope, was brief and a poor example of the kind of letter a man would write to his future bride. It stated in a businesslike manner that the professor would be in Holland for the next few days and signed it with his initials.

      Trixie read it for a second time, telling herself that possibly he had been in a great hurry when he had written it. At least he was honest, she reminded herself; he liked her—enough to marry her—but he wasn’t going to pretend to stronger feelings. Something she would have to get used to. ‘After all,’ she said to herself, ‘if I hadn’t fallen in love with him I don’t suppose I would have minded in the least.’