the weekend?" I asked as we sat down. "Did you go out and celebrate?"
She shook her head. "I didn't do anything very much. I'd arranged to meet one of the girls in the office for lunch on Saturday and to go and see the new Bette Davis film at the Curzon, so we did that."
"Did you tell her about your good fortune?"
She shook her head. "I haven't told anybody." She paused, and sipped her sherry; she was managing that and her cigarette quite nicely. "It seems such an improbable story," she said, laughing. "I don't know that I really believe in it myself."
I smiled with her. "Nothing is real till it happens," I observed. "You'll believe that this is true when we send you the first cheque. It would be a great mistake to believe in it too hard before that happens."
"I don't," she laughed. "Except for one thing. I don't believe you'd be wasting so much time on my affairs unless there was something in it."
"It's true enough for that." I paused, and then I said, "Have you thought yet what you are going to do in a month or two when the income from the trust begins? Your monthly cheque, after the tax has been deducted, will be about seventy-five pounds. I take it that you will hardly wish to go on with your present employment when those cheques begin to come in?"
"No…" She sat staring for a minute at the smoke rising from her cigarette. "I don't want to stop working. I wouldn't mind a bit going on with Pack and Levy just as if nothing had happened, if it was a job worth doing," she said. "But - well, it's not. We make ladies' shoes and handbags, Mr Strachan, and small ornamental attache cases for the high-class trade-the sort that sells for thirty guineas in a Bond Street shop to stupid women with more money than sense. Fitted vanity cases in rare leathers, and all that sort of thing. It's all right if you've got to earn your living, working in that sort of place. And it's been interesting, too, learning all about that trade."
"Most jobs are interesting when you are learning them," I said.
She turned to me. "That's true. I've quite enjoyed my time there. But I couldn't go on now, with all this money. One ought to do something more worthwhile, but I don't know what." She drank a little sherry. "I've got no profession, you see - only shorthand and typing, and a bit of book-keeping. I never had any real education-technical education, I mean. Taking a degree, or anything like that."
I thought for a moment. "May I ask a very personal question, Miss Paget?"
"Of course."
"Do you think it likely that you will marry in the near future?"
She smiled. "No, Mr Strachan, I don't think it's very likely that I shall marry at all. One can't say for certain, of course, but I don't think so."
I nodded without comment. "Well then, had you thought about taking a university course?"
Her eyes opened wide. "No-I hadn't thought of that. I couldn't do it, Mr Strachan I'm not clever enough. I couldn't get into a university." She paused. "I was never higher than the middle of my class at school, and I never got into the Sixth."
"It was just a thought," I said. "I wondered if that might attract you."
She shook her head. "I couldn't go back to school again now. I'm much too old."
I smiled at her. "Not quite such an old woman as all that," I observed.
For some reason the little compliment fell flat. "When I compare myself with some of the girls in the office," she said quietly, and there was no laughter in her now, "I know I'm about seventy."
I was finding out something about her now, but to ease the situation I suggested that we should go into dinner. When the ordering was done, I said, "Tell me what happened to you in the war. You were out in Malaya, weren't you?"
She nodded. "I had a job in an office, with the Kuala Perak Plantation Company. That was the company my father worked for, you know. Donald was with them, too."
"What happened to you in the war?" I asked. "Were you a prisoner?"
"A sort of prisoner," she said.
"In a camp?"
"No,"
She shook her head. "I didn't do anything very much. I'd arranged to meet one of the girls in the office for lunch on Saturday and to go and see the new Bette Davis film at the Curzon, so we did that."
"Did you tell her about your good fortune?"
She shook her head. "I haven't told anybody." She paused, and sipped her sherry; she was managing that and her cigarette quite nicely. "It seems such an improbable story," she said, laughing. "I don't know that I really believe in it myself."
I smiled with her. "Nothing is real till it happens," I observed. "You'll believe that this is true when we send you the first cheque. It would be a great mistake to believe in it too hard before that happens."
"I don't," she laughed. "Except for one thing. I don't believe you'd be wasting so much time on my affairs unless there was something in it."
"It's true enough for that." I paused, and then I said, "Have you thought yet what you are going to do in a month or two when the income from the trust begins? Your monthly cheque, after the tax has been deducted, will be about seventy-five pounds. I take it that you will hardly wish to go on with your present employment when those cheques begin to come in?"
"No…" She sat staring for a minute at the smoke rising from her cigarette. "I don't want to stop working. I wouldn't mind a bit going on with Pack and Levy just as if nothing had happened, if it was a job worth doing," she said. "But - well, it's not. We make ladies' shoes and handbags, Mr Strachan, and small ornamental attache cases for the high-class trade-the sort that sells for thirty guineas in a Bond Street shop to stupid women with more money than sense. Fitted vanity cases in rare leathers, and all that sort of thing. It's all right if you've got to earn your living, working in that sort of place. And it's been interesting, too, learning all about that trade."
"Most jobs are interesting when you are learning them," I said.
She turned to me. "That's true. I've quite enjoyed my time there. But I couldn't go on now, with all this money. One ought to do something more worthwhile, but I don't know what." She drank a little sherry. "I've got no profession, you see - only shorthand and typing, and a bit of book-keeping. I never had any real education-technical education, I mean. Taking a degree, or anything like that."
I thought for a moment. "May I ask a very personal question, Miss Paget?"
"Of course."
"Do you think it likely that you will marry in the near future?"
She smiled. "No, Mr Strachan, I don't think it's very likely that I shall marry at all. One can't say for certain, of course, but I don't think so."
I nodded without comment. "Well then, had you thought about taking a university course?"
Her eyes opened wide. "No-I hadn't thought of that. I couldn't do it, Mr Strachan I'm not clever enough. I couldn't get into a university." She paused. "I was never higher than the middle of my class at school, and I never got into the Sixth."
"It was just a thought," I said. "I wondered if that might attract you."
She shook her head. "I couldn't go back to school again now. I'm much too old."
I smiled at her. "Not quite such an old woman as all that," I observed.
For some reason the little compliment fell flat. "When I compare myself with some of the girls in the office," she said quietly, and there was no laughter in her now, "I know I'm about seventy."
I was finding out something about her now, but to ease the situation I suggested that we should go into dinner. When the ordering was done, I said, "Tell me what happened to you in the war. You were out in Malaya, weren't you?"
She nodded. "I had a job in an office, with the Kuala Perak Plantation Company. That was the company my father worked for, you know. Donald was with them, too."
"What happened to you in the war?" I asked. "Were you a prisoner?"
"A sort of prisoner," she said.
"In a camp?"
"No,"
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