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had the business acumen, which probably accounted for it.
    'I'll come and see to any bits of washing up that are left,' Mrs Pugh folded up her knitting unhurriedly. 'There's never very much these days,' she said regretfully, 'I mind the time when we had a bus service, the place used to be busy all the evening.'
    'I'll come and help you,' Marion offered hurriedly. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with Reeve.
    'There's no need,' Mrs Pugh was maddeningly obtuse. 'There'll only be a few glasses left to wash, I expect. Jim will have done the rest.' And she turned and followed Miles Dorman out of the room.
    'And then there were two,' Reeve quoted softly, into the crackling silence that followed their departure.
    She picked up the map from the table, keeping her back towards him. She did not want to turn to face him. Her hands trembled, so that the papers rustled, and she jostled them together, making believe she was trying to straighten them, to cover up the reason for the sound. If he had got any sense of decency, she thought desperately, he would go away and leave her alone. She turned from the table to the settee, and all the while she was acutely aware of him, watching her. Her sketch lay where she had left it, and she put the half-finished map on top, ready for the morning. Why did her uncle have to suggest Reeve should accompany her on the fell? she asked herself crossly. Maybe it would rain, and they would not be able to go. The thought gave her a momentary crumb of comfort.
    The small chore done, there was no further excuse to remain facing the settee. But the alternative was to turn and face Reeve. She knew without looking that he had not moved from where he stood. She picked up the map and her sketch and hesitated. The box of pencils still lay on the cushions. Her lips tightened. They could remain there, so far as she was concerned. Her eyes fell on the neatly folded duster beside them. She had come downstairs intending to return them both to Reeve. Now was her opportunity. The duster was nearer to her hand, and she braced herself and picked it up.
    'It's freshly washed and ironed.' She held it out towards him, and spoke through stiff lips. Her body felt tense, like a bow string, and she was strangely grateful for the tension, she felt if it left her she would begin to shake, and Reeve would see. Her breath came hurriedly, shallow and unsatisfying, and nearly stopped when he bent and reached for the box of pencils from the settee cushions.
    'You've forgotten these.'
    Stalemate. The thought flashed across her mind without humour. Somewhere it seemed to have occurred to her before, but she could not think where.
    'I'll take this.' He took the duster from her nerveless fingers. 'And you,' his voice hardened with inflexible determination, 'you will take these.' He folded her fingers that had held the duster, firmly over the flat box of pencils, and his own held them there, forcing her to grip it; feeling the sharp edge of the box that began to press into the palm of her hand, with a discomfort that would soon become pain.
    'And if you don't feel like thanking me for the pencils,' he went on in an even voice, 'that won't stop me from thanking you for the duster. Thanking you properly,' he mimicked Mrs Pugh. With his one hand still over her own, forcing her to keep her grip on the pencil box, he drew her towards him. He put his other hand round her waist, she could feel the palm of it warm against her back, as she had felt it warm on her shoulder in the airport observation lounge. His touch seemed to take away her power to move, to breathe....
    With silent fascination, she watched his face come closer to her own, waited for the pressure of his lips that she knew would come, anticipating the heady sweetness that would course like old wine through her veins. The tension left her, and she began to tremble, and his lips found hers, touching them masterfully, but at the same time gently, tasting the sweetness of them as