An Apple from Eve

The doctor gave her a thoughtful look. ‘But, my dear, she does,’ he pointed out.

Euphemia left a few minutes later, seen politely to the door by her host. She uttered the usual banalities about a pleasant evening, how nice to meet his fiancée and she did hope that he would be happy there; she altered that to ‘you both’ in the same breath, then because he didn’t say anything and she felt awkward standing there in the open doorway being stared at in such silence she went on: ‘I expect you’re looking for a house to suit you both for—later on when you’re married…’

‘You are free to expect anything you wish, Euphemia.’

She went past him and started down the drive to the gate, neatly mended now, she noticed. A great many things she would like to say to him were jostling for a place on her tongue, but she held it prudently. After all, she needed the rent money and the likelihood of seeing him again was remote.

Not remote at all. Sir Richard, doing his morning round on the following morning, brought Dr van Diederijk with him. The two gentlemen trod with deliberation into the ward, followed by the Medical Registrar, the House Physician, the Social Worker, a physiotherapist and a clutch of selfconscious students, and Euphemia, advancing to meet them with her staff nurse and one of the lesser fry clutching the patients’ notes, came to a rather abrupt halt at the sight of him.