Westwood by Stella Gibbons Page B

Lev.
    Hebe, who had been knitting with her amused eyes fixed on Earl’s solemn young face, now laughed outright, and Earl looked pained.
    The door opened and Alexander came back, and behind him the face – most unwelcome to Margaret – of Grantey.
    ‘It’s all right. Tastes superb,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s nearly ready, and Mary’s in.’ (Mary was the maid, obtained with much difficulty and filling up of forms, from Eire.)
    ‘Thank heaven; I’m ravenous,’ said Hebe, putting away her work.
    ‘Miss Steggles, we ought to be going; we’ve just got nice time if we go at once,’ put in Grantey, beckoning. Margaret put down her glass and stood up. Earl stood up too, but Lev stayed where he was.
    ‘Good-bye, Mrs Niland. Thank you very much. I have enjoyed it so,’ said Margaret; instinct told her not to put out her hand.
    ‘I’m so glad. You’ve been an angel with the brats,’ smiled Hebe. ‘Good-bye.’
    Earl was holding the door open for her. Lev and Alexander Niland glanced up from the conversation which they had resumed, and Lev nodded, while Alexander gave her his radiant smile. Earl held out his hand, which she took.
    ‘Good-bye, Miss Steggles,’ he said warmly. ‘I am glad to have had the pleasurr of meeting you and I certainly hope we shall meet again.’
    ‘Oh … thank you; so do I. Good-bye, Mr Swinger.’
    She was relieved that she had been able to remember his name. In another moment she was alone with Grantey in the blackout, turning up her collar against the cold wind and noticing the searchlights wandering over the dark cloudy sky. It was ridiculous to have tears in her eyes over the casualness of those people, she knew, but the afternoon had meant so much to her, and nothing to them, and she had never said good-bye to the children!
    Grantey was saying importantly: ‘Better let me hold your arm; I know my way down here better than you do, I expect. Now there’s no need to rush; we’ve plenty of time. That sitting-room clock’s ten minutes fast.’
    This information rendered Margaret silent for some time.
    ‘Who is that?’ demanded Alexander of his wife, as soon as Margaret had gone. ‘She was in the nursery when I got home this afternoon.’
    ‘Her name is Stubbles or something. She brought back my ration book. She’s been nursing it for weeks.’
    ‘Oh yes, she did say something about it, but you know I never hear what anyone says,’ said Alexander. ‘She has a rather striking head.’
    Hebe made a face.
    ‘Do you want to paint her? I should think she’d faint with joy. She never took her eyes off you.’
    ‘Not while I’m still doing raids. Do you think there’ll be one to-night?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ laughed Hebe, and she glanced at Lev, who was also laughing. Earl looked argumentative.
    ‘Would you say,’ he began, ‘that while you are making your mental colour-notes (if you will permit a layman to use the expression) in an air-raid, the danger and the loss of lives mean nothing to you?’
    Alexander shook his head.
    ‘I’m so interested in what I’m looking at that I forget to be afraid, and I don’t think about the poor devils who’re being killed.’
    ‘That shows a vurry high degree of artistic detachment,’ said Earl. ‘I am afraid that I should never be capable of that.’
    ‘You never know,’ said Lev.
    Alexander looked a little bewildered and offered Earl another drink, which was accepted, and in a few moments they went in to supper in the studio.
    Alexander had recently become interested in the colours of winter, and had taken to spending hours on the roof of his studio wrapped in airman’s kit which belonged to a friend who would fly no more, and studying the light and size of the winter stars, and the varying shades of black and brown and blue that make up the winter night sky. On one of these occasions a raid had occurred, and the effect was so awesome and fine that he had been excited by it, and had afterwards made some sketches which