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jacket of his lounge suit fitted his broad shoulders like a glove, the sombre colour making him look taller and slimmer, if anything, than he really was. A maroon and grey striped silk tie added a discreet touch of colour against an ivory silk shirt and—she gasped at his impudence—he wore a small cream rosebud in the lapel of his jacket. One of the tea roses she had put in the vase in his room.
    Did he hear the sound of her indrawn breath? If not, what else made him turn as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and look up, directly at her? And discover her still on the landing, watching him. For a long endless minute grey eyes met brown ones. His look speared upwards like a shaft of light in the cool dimness of the stairway. And then Mrs Pugh struck the gong and he turned away, and Marion felt as if shackles had dropped from her feet, releasing her. She spun round and ran to her bedroom door, grasped the knob and threw it open, as she had thrown open the front door of the hotel only that afternoon, and ran inside, slamming it behind her. She did not care if he heard it slam, she could not help it, and coherent thought was beyond her. She sank down on to her bed, feeling herself begin to tremble.
    'Marion, are you coming down? Your dinner will be cold.'
    How long she sat there she did not know. Mrs Pugh's call sounded as if she might be coming upstairs in search of her, and urgency moved Marion on to her feet. She called back,
    'I'm coming. I didn't realise I'd been so long.'
    Her voice must have sounded normal enough, because the housekeeper's footsteps went off back downstairs, and Marion stripped off her sweater with hasty hands. It would not do for Mrs Pugh to come back and find she had not even started to change. She plucked a dress at random from her wardrobe. It was a high-necked, sleeveless leaf green linen, a perfect foil for her honey-gold hair. She subdued the latter into a smooth curtain with a hasty brush, slipped on a pair of white sandals, and ran downstairs before the older woman waxed impatient.
    'Sorry I was so long.' Conscience reminded her she had offered to serve the guests' dinner herself, but Mrs Pugh did not seem put out by her delinquency.
    'Don't worry about Mr Harland and his pilot,' she said comfortably, 'they're settled with their main course.'
    Marion was not worried about them. Her last concern was for Reeve Harland's comfort, though it should be her first, she thought guiltily, since he was staying in her uncle's hotel.
    'They seem a pleasant pair,' the housekeeper went on happily. 'They tell me they've parked their helicopter at the airport.'
    'And parked themselves on us,' Marion observed sourly, if somewhat obscurely, through a mouthful of crisp Yorkshire pudding.
    'Well, that's what we're here for, isn't it?' Mercifully Mrs Pugh did not seem to notice the ire in her voice, and she pulled herself up sharply. If she made her dislike of Reeve Harland too obvious, the housekeeper might want to know why, and Marion found it difficult enough to discover a rational explanation, even to herself. 'We're just not on the same wavelength,' she dismissed their dark-haired guest with a shrug, and concentrated on her meal.
    'I'll take the sweet in.' Mrs Pugh cut generous portions of apple pie. 'You can look after their coffee while I give your uncle his meal.'
    'Has the man come to look after the bar?' Someone would have to be on duty, it was past opening time, and she added hastily as she caught the housekeeper's look of surprise, 'I know I don't normally serve in there, I just hadn't heard Jim arrive, that's all.'
    'He came while you were busy upstairs. I hope they like apple pie,' her companion returned to more immediate concerns.
    'I'm sure Willy does,' Marion smiled. And Reeve Harland could either eat it or go without, she added silently to herself.
    'I've told them you'll take their coffee into the drawing room in a quarter of an hour.' Mrs Pugh returned as Marion finished her own meal. 'Now I'll