Free Dear Trustee by Mary Burchell Page A

strictly on his own terms. “Where did you meet her?” he asked grudgingly.
    “At the theatre.”
    “So you’ve been running round to plays, as another way of wasting your time, eh?” Uncle Algernon shot a critical glance at his nephew.
    “Not at all. I went with Gregory Picton,” stated Cecile crisply, before Maurice could reply for himself.
    “You did?” Uncle Algernon’s eyes gleamed afresh. “And he was with you when you met Felicity?”
    “He made the introduction.”
    “Well, well.” Uncle Algernon seemed prepared to take immense vicarious pleasure in the meeting. “What happened?”
    “Nothing,” said Cecile, who thought he deserved that, after the nasty way he had spoken to Maurice.
    “What do you mean—nothing?” Uncle Algernon gave her a cross but incredibly knowing glance. “They spoke to each other, I suppose, didn’t they?”
    “Oh, yes. They seemed rather surprised to see each other. But then she explained about having just come back from America, and he remarked that it was quite by chance that we happened to be at the same theatre.”
    “Did she believe that?” The old man chuckled.
    “I don’t know why she shouldn’t,” Cecile said calmly. “It was the truth. It was only at the last minute that we decided to go. After the first act was over.”
    “Oh.” Uncle Algernon seemed rather disappointed about this. And he added, on principle, “Shocking waste of money, paying for seats and seeing only half the play.”
    “We saw two-thirds of it,” Cecile stated exactly. “And we didn’t pay for seats, anyway. We were invited into the actor-manager’s box. And Felicity was there.”
    “Just like that?” Uncle Algernon began to cheer up. “Was Gregory very much taken aback at seeing her?”
    “If so, he hid it remarkably well,” replied Cecile. But she remembered in that moment the half nervous way Lady Lucas’s hand had closed on hers, as she told Gregory that Felicity was in the box.
    At this point, Uncle Algernon slid further down in his chair, rather like a disgruntled child, and looked aggrieved.
    “No one ever tells the old man anything,” he muttered. “They just leave him to find out for himself. And then they expect him to be pleasant and leave them all his money.”
    “Nonsense,” said Cecile, kindly but briskly—which had the effect of making him sit up again. “What you really mean is that you would like me to tell you some malicious gossip about Gregory and your great-niece, so that the next time you see either of them you can show you know more than they know themselves, and enjoy their discomfiture.”
    “Cecile—” murmured Maurice, in a warning sort of way.
    But the old man turned on him angrily.
    “You leave her alone. She has some real spirit and doesn’t mind speaking out. And she’s right too—though her grammar is poor. I do enjoy finding out about people and showing that I know as much as they do, even though I’m sitting here in a chair, leading a miserable dull life, with no one to care whether I live or die, except for getting my money. And why shouldn’t I?”
    “I don’t know,” said Cecile mildly. “Except that you won’t make yourself very popular that way.”
    “I don’t want to be popular. I like being unpopular.”
    “Well, that simplifies things, anyway.” And Cecile laughed. It was a pretty laugh. Gay and full of real amusement, and it seemed to shatter the dull formality of the room into a thousand sparkling fragments.
    For a moment Uncle Algernon looked at her in surprise. Then he grinned back at her, with a sort of malicious good humour.
    “I like you,” he remarked.
    “Do you? I think I like you,” Cecile replied candidly. “At least you are not the slightest bit like anyone else.”
    Uncle Algernon looked enormously gratified.
    “But,” Cecile went on, “I don’t hold any brief for your snooping into other people’s affairs, for the sheer pleasure of showing you can find things out, even when you are