So Well Remembered by James Hilton Page A

old Mr. Felsby
should boast so much about never having done it in his life.
    “I don’t suppose there’s anything here,” she went on. “I think Watson
takes whisky, though—on the sly. Perhaps he keeps a bottle somewhere
—I can ask him.”
    He smiled again. “Don’t worry—I never did drink at breakfast. For
that matter, I never drank much at any time. Not to excess, that is.”
    “Then it’s not a bad habit.”
    “All right—so long as you don’t think too well of me.”
    They talked on, as unimportantly as that. She did not ask him any direct
questions, nor he her, but by the time the first rays of sunshine poured in
through the kitchen window they knew a few things about each other—
such as, for instance, that they had both arrived at Stoneclough before their
time—she from school, having run away, he from prison, having been
released a few months earlier than he had counted on, owing to a technicality
in the reckoning. She gathered also that his arrival had led to other events
in which her mother and Mr. Standon were involved. He did not tell her much
about that, but he said it was an odd coincidence that she should have come
that morning, an odd and perhaps an awkward one, but not so awkward as if she
had come a few hours sooner.
    “I don’t know why she didn’t tell me everything before,” he added, as if
thinking aloud. “It would have been all right. I wouldn’t have blamed her…
I don’t blame her now, for that matter. She just couldn’t face facts—
never could… Oh, well, give me another cup of tea.”
    While Livia did so he puffed at his pipe and went on:
    “Things never turn out quite how you expect, do they?”
    She knew that he was addressing her as an adult, either deliberately or
absent-mindedly, and in order not to break the spell she said nothing in
reply. But he relapsed into silence, and presently, still under the spell
herself, she said brightly: “Don’t I make good tea?”
    He seemed to wake himself up. “You certainly do.” Then he yawned. “VERY
good.”
    “I expect you’re tired.”
    “Yes. Dead tired. I was up all night.”
    “So was I—in the train.”
    “Perhaps we’d both better get some sleep.”
    She nodded. “Sarah knows you’re here, of course?”
    “Oh yes. AND Miss Fortescue AND Watson. We’ll meet at dinner, then.”
    He walked out of the kitchen and a few seconds later she heard him
climbing the stairs. It was odd to reflect that he knew his way about the
house.
    She slept soundly most of the day and was wakened during the afternoon by
the sound of commotion in the yard. When she ran to the window, with almost
every possibility in mind, she saw it was only Miss Fortescue driving off in
a cab. Somehow it did not seem to matter what Miss Fortescue did, but it gave
her something to begin the conversation with when she went down to the
dinner-table that evening.
    “She left,” he said, “because the whole situation was revolting to her
sensibilities.”
    Again he was talking to her as to an adult; and she knew what he meant, if
not all the individual words. Throughout the rest of the meal he veered
between more trivial gossip and silence, but when Sarah had left the room for
good he said: “I don’t know what your plans are, Livia…”
    “PLANS? I haven’t any.”
    “I mean—what are you going to do?”
    “I’m not going to go back to Cheldean.”
    “Well…” And he began to light his pipe. “Some other school,
perhaps?”
    “You mean you don’t WANT me here?”
    “Livia… it isn’t that. It hasn’t much to do with what I want. Let’s not
discuss it yet, though. All kinds of things can happen.”
    Which was the kind of world that Livia dreamed of—one in which all
kinds of things could happen.
    She said cheerfully: “The school holidays begin next week, so I’d have
been here soon anyway.”
    He smiled. “Naturally… and—er—while you ARE here, there’s
another thing… you