Free For Ever and Ever by Mary Burchell

Nicholas Edmonds said.
    “The other fellow?”
    “Pembridge.”
    “Certainly not !” exclaimed Leonie, even more taken aback at this prospect. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
    “My being a knowledgeable sort of person,” quoted Edmonds rather unkindly, “and a good judge of people.”
    “Well, I’m afraid that’s one of your mistakes,” Leonie said a little stiffly.
    “You don’t say.” Her companion looked amused, for some reason or other. “Anyhow, about the Assistant Surgeon. He’s a pleasant enough fellow in a lightweight way, I suppose. Nothing wrong with him for a passing flirtation. He’ll enjoy himself harmlessly enough. Might break a few hearts, I daresay, but mostly the type that mend easily. In the end he’ll marry money, of course. His sort always do.”
    “You’re—sure of that?”
    “Nothing is ever sure in human nature, dear child. But—yes, I’m reasonably sure. I was watching him while your friend talked about her father’s illness. He was profoundly interested. Not, I think, from a purely humanitarian point of view.”
    “From what, then?”
    “A business point of view, of course.”
    “A business point of view?”
    “Certainly. Attractive but poor young men must always be interested in the mortality rate among rich fathers of marriageable daughters,” returned Nicholas Edmonds.
    “What a dreadful thing to say!”
    “Human nature is dreadful sometimes,” replied her companion equably. “But don’t blame the young man too much. He seems pleasantly devoted to your friend. It’s asking too much of him that he should also worry about an unknown and nebulous father, whose sole significance to him personally would probably be a nuisance value.”
    Leonie laughed reluctantly.
    “I see what you mean. But—would you think him a—a scrupulous person?” she asked, groping after something basic that would reassure her.
    Nicholas Edmonds shrugged.
    “Scruples are so much a personal matter, my dear. No man can judge another’s standard of values. I can only tell you that if it were a question of integrity—”
    “I think that was the word I wanted,” Leonie interrupted eagerly.
    “—I would choose Pembridge every time.”
    “Oh, of course! He’s a man of the utmost integrity,” exclaimed Leonie warmly.
    At which her companion regarded her quizzically and said, “You seem to have made it up with him satisfactorily.”
    “Oh—yes,” Leonie agreed, with a slight blush. “I was cross with you at the time for thrusting me on him, that first evening, but now I’m grateful. We had quite a—quite a pleasant talk together. About old times,” she added, a trifle sedately.
    “You see? Your Uncle Nicholas knew best.” His sardonic smile was not unkindly. “Don’t worry about either of the surgeons. At your age, things have a habit of working out all right.”
    It was not often that he said anything so optimistic and Leonie—half amused, half touched—hugged the reassurance to her more than once in the next few days.
    One of the loveliest parts of the voyage had now begun. In the Mediterranean, spring had already come, and the days were warm and sunny. At night it was still cold, but even then there was, in the wind that blew lightly across the decks, a whisper of something much softer and more kindly than anything known at this time of year in more northern waters.
    Almost every evening there was dancing, and by now Leonie and Claire had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, so that it was almost as though they enjoyed a continual round of parties in ideal surroundings.
    Leonie, however, never allowed herself to forget that her own personal problem might well be put to the test when they came to Naples. And, when she was dancing with Mr. Pembridge one evening, she asked him eagerly if he were going ashore there.
    “I don’t know.” He looked down at her indulgently. “I don’t think so. Why?”
    “You don’t think so?” She was dismayed at the