Westwood by Stella Gibbons

night nursery, were of rich red or green or yellow velvet, and every lamp was shaded in amber, and the glowing, jewel-like impression of the cottage which she had received in the afternoon was strengthened, now that the darkness had come, by the emerald-green or carnation-red carpets which covered all the floors and the staircase. She was enjoying every moment (apart from those spent in listeningto the yells of Barnabas and his sister), but as she carried Emma into the nursery she was wondering nervously how she would get on downstairs while she was drinking the sherry; who would be there, and what she should say, and what they would think of her.
    Emma was now calm, and felt warm and soft inside her miniature dressing-gown. Her feet were still bright pink from the bath and she wore slippers shaped like rabbits. Her sweet-smelling hair tickled Margaret’s nose.
    ‘There!’ said Margaret, setting her down in the cot and covering her up, having first removed the slippers. Emma looked up at her but said nothing.
    ‘Hullo, therr!’ said a soft voice at the door, with a slur on the ‘r,’ and Margaret looked up. A fair young man of medium height, wearing the uniform of an American private, stood looking into the room through his glasses.
    ‘Hullo,’ she said pleasantly. She was not afraid of him, because he looked so young and probably was not a genius.
    ‘I’ve brought their rations,’ he said, coming forward with a tray. ‘Hullo, Barnabas,’ to the little boy, who had scrambled into his bed, kicking off his slippers as he went. The soldier put the tray down on the table.
    ‘Hullo, Earl,’ said Barnabas, and tried to stand on his head, suddenly overcome with self-consciousness.
    ‘Barnabas, darling, I don’t think Grantey would like you to do that,’ said Margaret gently.
    ‘Don’t care.’
    ‘Now that won’t do,’ said the soldier, taking him by the slack of his pyjamas. His touch was not expert but Barnabas allowed himself to be put right way up and given his bowl, and began to eat his supper.
    ‘Mrs Grant’ll feed Sister,’ said Earl, going over to Emma’s cot and putting her bowl on the table. ‘You can’t quite be trusted yet, can you, Sister?’ and he stood gazing down at Emma with his hands on the rail of the cot, while she gazed steadily up at him.
    He suddenly glanced across at Margaret.
    ‘Aren’t they swell?’ he said simply. ‘It’s a great privilege – coming into an English home like this, and I can tell you it means a whole heap to me.’ His grey eyes were youthful and clear behind his glasses.
    Margaret was moved. The pretty room, the rosy children eating their supper in the peaceful hush, seemed suddenly to typify all that was still safe and happy in England, while the boy’s words seemed to go out and away, across the dark dangerous Atlantic, to the home that he had left behind him when he came to fight for freedom. So touching were her thoughts that she was both astonished and indignant when another American voice said mockingly:
    ‘The hell it does.’
    A second soldier, tall and dark and flashy, stood at the door looking into the room. He took no notice of her. ‘Will you come on down, Earl,’ he said, and turned away.
    Earl looked hurt, but made no comment. He turned to Margaret, ‘I’m Earl Swinger, late of Swordsville, Kansas, and now of the United States Army. I’m pleased to know you.’
    He held out his hand and Margaret took it. He gave it a firm shake.
    ‘I’m pleased to meet you, too,’ she said, and feeling that more was demanded of her, she added, ‘I’m Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’ She felt foolish as she said it, but then she wondered why. This was a sensible social custom which established a stranger’s name and locality firmly in one’s mind.
    ‘ Mrs Margaret Steggles?’
    ‘Oh, no – Miss Margaret Steggles,’ she laughed.
    ‘And your profession? (Shall I lead the way downstairs?)’ he went on, going ahead of her down the