No Fond Return of Love Read Online Free PDF

to herself.
    ‘But what does it lead to, Miss Mainwaring?’
    ‘I don’t know exactly. Of course learning is an end in itself, and a subject like English Literature can give one a good deal of pleasure.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose it’s nice,’ said Miss Lord doubtfully.
    ‘One can always teach,’ Dulcie went on, ‘or get some other kind of job.’
    ‘Like you do, Miss Mainwaring, with all those cards and bits of paper spread out on the floor.’ Miss Lord laughed, a light derisive laugh.
    Dulcie felt humbled and went on in silence picking out the over-ripe plums from the not so ripe.
    ‘I think I’ll stew these for this evening,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them on now.’
    As she worked, Dulcie planned Laurel’s room. The old blue velvet curtains were rather drab and faded, though they kept out the draughts in winter and the room seemed cosy when they were drawn. Perhaps a modern print would be gayer and more suitable for a young girl… What dreary thoughts to have on a fine afternoon, she told herself, ashamed even of the language in which they had framed themselves. It must be the contact with poor Miss Lord or the thought of herself as an aunt responsible for a niece. Laurel’s mother, Dulcie’s sister Charlotte, lived in Dorset, where her husband Robin was headmaster of a grammar school and curator of the local museum in his spare time. Laurel was the eldest of their three children and had just left school. Dulcie imagined herself trying to cope with the mysterious moods of adolescence, lying awake worrying when Laurel was out late. She was not looking forward to it very much, but it seemed inevitable that the girl should come to live with her. She could hardly have stayed in digs or a hostel when she had an aunt in London, or so Charlotte thought.
    Through the trees and the fence at the end of the garden Dulcie could see her neighbour, Mrs Beltane, sitting in a flowery dress in a flowery canvas chair from Harrods, watching her hose watering the lawn with its special spray attachment. She was an elegant blue-haired, stiffly-moving woman of about sixty, who imagined herself to have seen better days. At least, this was the implication, for she had let the top floor of her house as a flat to a Brazilian gentleman, a diplomat admittedly, and she never tired of reminding people that of course she would never have done such a thing in ‘the old days’.
    Senhor MacBride-Pereira – for he was, like many Brazilians, of mixed nationality – was a nice person, Dulcie thought. He was in his late fifties, rather fat, with soft brown eyes and a delightful smile. He spoke English well and was steeped in English ways and conventions. ‘To be a foreigner is bad enough,’ he would lament, ‘and perhaps to be an American, too, but to be a Latin-American – that is really terrible!’
    This afternoon he sat by Mrs Beltane, playing with Felix, the little grey poodle, and talking in his musical voice. Dulcie could not hear what he was saying, but occasionally Mrs Beltane’s silvery laugh was heard tinkling out. In spite of the come-down of having to take a lodger, she enjoyed his company: but there was no risk of scandal, for her two children Paul and Monica lived at home.
    Dulcie crept to the fence with a dish of plums in her hand. She did not like to interrupt her neighbours too suddenly, but preferred to stand for a while pretending to tie up the dahlias, then, if they did not notice her, she would creep away with her dish.
    ‘Why, Miss Mainwaring,’ called out Mr; Beltane in a gracious tone, ‘how splendid your dahlias are!’
    ‘I was wondering if you’d like a few plums,’ said Dulcie.
    ‘Plums?’ Mrs Beltane sounded as puzzled as if she had been offered some rare tropical fruit. ‘But how kind. One can always do with plums .’
    ‘Are they Elvas plums?’ asked Senhor MacBride-Pereira.
    ‘Well, no, plums off this tree,’ said Dulcie, gesticulating vaguely. ‘I think they’re Victoria plums.’
    ‘Ah,