Crescendo by Phyllis Bentley

the Sunday newspapers, she often knew of it; an intelligent girl, he thought approvingly.
    Then came the day when they met in the municipal library. Richard, emerging from the reference room, found himself unexpectedly involved in the mêlée round the trolley of new novels which one of the assistants had just wheeled in. It was the habit of almost every reader in the library to rush upon this trolley when it appeared, with a Yorkshire determination not to be outdone, to get their fair (or possibly just a little more than their fair) share of whatever new books rested on it. In the resulting scramble, a girl on the fringe of the crowd was pushed back sharply, almost into Richard’s arms.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” said Richard politely, withdrawing.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” began Miss Dean.
    They recognised each other and smiled. Miss Dean’s rich colour deepened, really very beautifully. She was carrying a large open leatherette bag, typical of the period as Richard reflected, and this bag was full of books of a by no means frivolous kind. (It was impossible to deceive Richard’s eye about the nature of a book.)
    â€œAh!” exclaimed-Richard, pleased. “A little heavy reading for the weekend.”
    â€œA busman’s holiday,” said Miss Dean, blushing still deeper. “I read too much.”
    â€œNobody can read too much,” said Richard, smiling.
    They walked out of the library and through the park, together.
    After that Richard did not hesitate to ask her help, in the bookshop, in tracking down any obscure or little-advertised volume he required, because he felt that she enjoyed the task. They pored together over catalogues, and formal postcards in Miss Dean’s hand announcing the arrival of some long-sought second-hand purchase from time to time reached Richard at the Grammar School. Her handwriting was firm and clear, pleasantly influenced by the prevailing cult for cursive script. Of course when Richard required maps and guide-books for his projected Easter holiday exploration of the Yorkshire dales, it was Miss Dean who sold them to him.
    He was coming down a moorland road from a high fell on the afternoon of Easter Saturday when at the small gate beside the cattle grid he overtook Miss Dean. The catch of the gate was a little awkward if one did not know its secret; Richard opened it for the girl without quite realising who she was—he was busy thinking up arguments with which to persuade his headmaster to allow the fifth to take the new Oxford General Literature syllabus next year. Then as she passed through and round the gate, she faced him; he recognised her and exclaimed.
    â€œMiss Dean! What a pleasure to see you in such——”
    He was about to say “suitable surroundings”, but decided he was not entitled to make such a personal comment, and suppressed the adjective. But indeed, against the vast widespread panorama of hill and dale, moor and fell, with the sun on her cheek and the wind in her hair, her splendid vitality shone as if enhanced by its proper setting.
    They walked on down the hill together, in silence. Richard was a trifle perplexed. His companion seemed greatly embarrassed. To ease the situation Richard began to talk, lightly and affably as was his way. He told her where he was staying, and described some of the walks he had already performed. In an uncertain tone, holding down her head, Miss Dean volunteered the information that she was staying in the next village. There was a pause.
    â€œWhat you said about the dales when you bought the maps—interested me so much—I thought I would like to see them,” said the girl suddenly, as if in explanation.
    Her voice was, again, panting and uncertain, her cheek the colour of a clove carnation; Richard was still more perplexed.
    â€œNaturally you wish to know the beauties of your own county,” he said in soothing agreement.
    But the tension between them did