Free The Alien by Josephine Bell

practice.’’
    â€œYes, I suppose so.’’
    Margrethe’s fair skin flushed a little, for his eyes in the mirror were still resting on her, with quite undisguised approval.
    â€œYou should always make your coiffure so,’’ he said. “Straight and smooth with the long end twist on top.’’
    â€œTwisted on top.’’
    â€œTwist-ed. What a language! Few rules of grammar but those – absurd.’’
    â€œI agree, but one must observe the rules.’’
    She moved forward and Boris swivelled his chair to meet her, turning slowly back as she reached the desk. She stood there, waiting, but noticing all the same the groups into which he had divided the mail.
    â€œThese,’’ he offered her, “are for Sørensen direct. His translated copy is on top of each letter as usual. These,’’ he handed her the Norwegian letters, “I cannot do. I wonder you sent them to me.’’
    They exchanged a long look, questioning on her part, closed on his.
    â€œI do not understand – Norwegian,’’ he repeated, softly.
    â€œVery well.’’
    With a slight frown Margrethe picked up the letters.
    â€œBut you do,’’ Boris went on, in the same tone.
    Her flush deepened, but she only said, “Very well,’’ again and turned to go.
    â€œStop,’’ said Boris, still in his gentle voice, bantering, amused. “There are these.’’
    He showed her the two Polish letters but kept them in his hand as he did so and almost at once transferred them back to the desk, where he laid one arm across them.
    â€œI will take them in to Sørensen myself,’’ he said. “Will you have lunch with me?’’
    â€œToday?’’
    â€œNaturally, today.’’
    â€œVery well.’’
    He smiled at her. The businesslike tone was natural, he knew. Admirable girl, with her gentle young face and smooth primrose hair and cold blue eyes. How unlike Louise. How fortunate.
    â€œWhere?’’
    â€œAldwych this time. No, beyond. A little place – not bad.’’
    She listened carefully as he described it and made a mental note of the name. They had never lunched together in the same place more than once. It astonished her that he had found so many small ordinary restaurants within half a mile of the office. Before he joined the Baltic Trading Company she had usually eaten a sandwich and drunk coffee at the nearest snack bar. She did so still on most days. But about once a week now she met Boris for a more substantial meal.
    On this occasion he was already there when she arrived, sitting at a corner table reading the early edition of an evening paper. He did not look up until she arrived but he had pulled out a chair for her before she was quite ready to sit down.
    â€œYou will not find it too hot in here?’’ he asked, anxiously.
    Margrethe laughed. She was wearing a sleeveless pale coral-pink linen dress and white high-heeled sandals. She had walked from the office on the shady side of the road and had not hurried.
    â€œPoor you!’’ she said, laughing. “The business man’s suit. Always this cloth, summer and winter. The British are the true masochists.’’
    â€œWe stay here, then?’’
    â€œWhy, yes. There is no time for moving. And I am hungry.’’
    Her blue eyes had warmed to the thought of food. The Swedes had Teutonic affinities, Boris thought, noticing it. But thinking too that her good appetite did not spoil her excellent figure. Let her eat then. It was good for the nerves and she needed strong nerves.
    He ordered for them both and talked easily and lightly to her about a recent week-end he had spent in a charming little hotel on the River Thames between Maidenhead and Henley.
    â€œAlone?’’ asked Margrethe, primly.
    â€œNaturally not alone,’’ he answered.
    â€œIs she