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Gwendoline knocked softly on the sitting room door, and at the quiet ‘come in’ slipped into the room. Miss Winter was alone, as Gwen had hoped she’d be, stitching away at a tear in one of Mother’s dresses.
Miss Winter looked up as she came in. “Oh, hello, dear,” she said. “I thought you were doing the washing up.”
“I was,” Gwen said, and hid her hands, red from scrubbing, in the folds of her skirt. She crossed over to where Miss Winter was sitting by the fire, and sat down in the opposite chair. “I say, Miss Winter, we must talk about something.”
“Do go on,” Miss Winter said encouragingly. “I shan’t stop this mending—your mother wants this tomorrow—but I am listening.”
“Well,” Gwen said slowly, and folded her hands in her lap. “The thing is, Miss Winter, I must get a job, don’t you think? And at once.”
Miss Winter said nothing.
“We’ve very little of the housekeeping money left, you know. And I simply must pay the gardeners this week. And then there’s Janet’s wages, as well. I’ve asked Mother for some money, but we can’t do that every month. I simply must get a job.”
Miss Winter didn’t look up from her mending, her eyes trained on her busy fingers. Gwen watched the needle dart back and forth through the dark cambric, trying not to fidget.
Finally Miss Winter laid down the mending, sighed, and met Gwen’s eyes. “Gwen, dear, I don’t think you could,” she said quietly.
“Don’t think I could?” Gwen repeated, incredulous. “But I must do something! And I can too work hard! Don’t I do the dusting and the cleaning every day? Don’t I lay the table and Daddy’s tray and make the beds? Don’t I see to the post and the shopping? Don’t I—”
“Oh, yes, Gwen, of course you’re a great help around the house,” Miss Winter agreed hurriedly. “Only, dear, you couldn’t get a job right away, not a good one, because you aren’t trained for anything.”
Gwen blinked at her. “Trained for anything?” she repeated stupidly.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Winter said. “I mean, if you wanted a job as a secretary or anything, you’d have to take a course first.”
“A course?” Gwen said in dismay. She’d never even remembered about that. Of course she couldn’t go into someone’s office without training. “But I can’t do anything like that. I’d have to be there all day, woudn’t I? And then who’d see to the beds, and the shopping, and get Daddy his lunch?”
Miss Winter was silent a moment as she set a few more stitches. Then she said slowly, “I could do some of that, Gwen. And perhaps your mother…”
“Mother wouldn’t do a thing.” Even now, when there was any amount of washing up to do and laundry to be put away, Mother was in bed with what she called ‘one of my sick headaches’ but which was really an easy excuse to leave it all for Gwen and Miss Winter.
They sat in silence for a while, while the fire popped and crackled and Miss Winter’s busy needle made short work of Mother’s dress. Miss Winter did a great deal too much for them, Gwen thought, especially as they didn’t pay her anymore. Gwen had offered, awkwardly, when she’d come home from Malory Towers, and Miss Winter had startled her by flying into a rage and then bursting into tears. You can’t think me that much an outsider, she’d sobbed. I hope that I am still able to be of use to—to the family whom I—to whom I owe so much.
And certainly she was of use. The doctor had said that she was as good as any nurse, and Daddy brightened up the instant she came into his room. Not like Mother, Gwen thought, who only cries, and worries him with things he shouldn’t be told about.
She sighed and tried to think. What they really needed, of course, was another maid, but there wasn’t enough money for that. There wasn’t even enough for a daily girl from the village.
Miss Winter cleared her throat. “Perhaps,” she said diffidently, and then stopped.
Gwen twisted her fingers around each other. “Yes, Miss Winter?”
“Well, I was only thinking,” Miss Winter said, still hesitent, her attention on her mending. “Perhaps Mrs Pinny who comes in to do the rough could come for a few hours each day? Then she could do the washing up from breakfast and lunch while Janet did the beds and the dusting.” She stopped. “Only you’d have to do everything else when you came home, and you’d be tired…”
“Never mind that,” Gwen said quickly. Here, at last, was a way out! “And it wouldn’t be for terribly long, would it? Just until I finished the secretarial course. Then when I get a job, we could get another maid with my pay to do the rest.” She sighed. “How long is a secretarial course?”
“About three months, I believe.”
“Oh, well,” Gwen said dubiously. “It’ll be almost Christmas by then. I daresay we could manage till then, couldn’t we? If Mrs Pinny does a little each day.” She and Miss Winter looked at each other. They neither of them believed that it would be easy to manage, but what choice did they have?
**
Gwen trudged wearily down the corridor to her bedroom, intensely aware of the pain she was in—just two weeks of secretarial school had already given her the ever-present ache in her wrists and back from the typing she was still so dreadful at. She hadn’t helped herself by carrying all that heavy shopping home either; still, at least now she could tell Mother she’d done it already and Mother wouldn’t go out and waste money on the best cuts of meat when really a little lean would do just as well.
How well I’ve taken to penny-pinching, she thought derisively. If Alicia and the others could only see her now! In her drab skirt and blouse, she looked exactly like all the other drab mousey girls at the secretarial school—except of course that she wasn’t mousey. Gwen tossed her sensible braid over her shoulder and thought of all the times Potty had made her leave the classroom to braid her hair, when she’d first come to Malory Towers. Would Potty, or Alicia, or Darrell, or any of the girls, believe the things Gwen was now willing to do unprompted?
The clock began to chime for six o’clock just as she reached the door to Daddy’s room. Odd—Miss Winter didn’t usually leave this door open because of the draught from the corridor. Perhaps she’d just stepped out for something? Gwen drew near the door, thinking to just pull it to, when she heard Daddy’s voice.
“No, leave it, my dear, and come and sit down. I’ve hardly spoken to you for days.”
Gwen had actually stepped into the room, a delighted smile on her face—for Daddy didn’t often ask for her company—when she realised that he hadn’t been speaking to her at all.
Daddy and Miss Winter were sitting by the fire, Daddy in his chair and bolstered about by blankets and pillows, and Miss Winter perched on the little stool she kept there. They were both facing the fire and had their backs to her. As Gwen watched, Daddy reached out and folded his stronger, right hand around the thin, pale hand Miss Winter had on his arm.
“What good care you take of me,” he said quietly.
Miss Winter turned her head a little to look at him, and Gwen, prompted by some unknown instinct, shrank into the shadows by the door. “I wish I could do more,” Miss Winter said softly, and raised her free hand to touch Daddy’s face gently.
Gwen, silent and unseen by the door, gaped. Of course Daddy and Miss Winter had always been friendly and polite to each other, but if Gwen had thought about it—which she hadn’t—she should never have said that they were on such easy terms. Certainly she couldn’t remember Daddy ever holding Miss Winter’s hand! Why, he wasn’t even like this with Mother! And Miss Winter—why, Miss Winter was positively dowdy!
Daddy had bowed his head over their clasped hands and was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, “This is hardly fair to you, Isabel. For you to be shut up here in this stuffy room all day, with no relief and no amusement, only a broken-down man to nurse and cosset…”
“What’s all this?” Miss Winter said, and Gwen could see she was trying to be cheerful. “You’re not broken down by any means, my dear, only ill. And you must know that it give me great pleasure to be by your side, taking care of you.”
Daddy looked up at her and smiled, and Gwen, seeing that smile, swallowed. She had never seen that look on Daddy’s face, not ever, soft and gentle and young, even before he’d been ill.
“Does it give you great pleasure, darling? Then I’m glad,” Daddy told Miss Winter, while Gwen pushed a suddenly shaking hand against her mouth to keep from crying out. Darling?
“But who takes care of you, Isabel?” Even as she fought to keep silent and motionless, when she wanted very badly to scream, Daddy lifted Miss Winter’s hand and kissed her fingers.
Isabel. Of course, that was Miss Winter’s Christian name, which Gwen herself had nearly forgotten. Obviously, Daddy had not! Gwen’s head was reeling, and her stomach was beginning to churn. She really ought to turn around and leave; eavesdroppers, as she had good reason to know, seldom heard anything pleasant, and it was quite plain that Daddy and Miss Winter had come to expect absolute privacy in this room.
“George, darling,” Miss Winter said softly. “I am perfectly happy to be here with you, you know that. It’s everything that I want, everything I’ve wanted for years.” As Gwen watched, astounded, she leaned forward, took Daddy’s face in her hands, and—and—kissed him.
What was worse, Daddy, far from being shocked at her actions, leaned forward as well, and his mangled left hand moved to Miss Winter’s shoulder as his right hand cupped her head. It was very clear that this was not the first embrace of this kind that they’d shared, and just as clear that they were both enjoying it.
Gwen couldn’t make her feet move; she couldn’t even turn her head away. She watched in mingled horror and incredulity as her father continued to kiss and caress her governess, their sighs of obvious pleasure and the soft smacking sounds their mouths made drowned out by the rushing in her ears.
At last her father drew back. “Ah, Isabel,” he said softly. “You say I’m not broken but even so much has tired me.” As Miss Winter, clearly concerned, moved forward to settle him back, adjust his pillows, and generally fuss over him, he stopped her. “No, no, I only meant to illustrate how different I am now to what I was a year ago, my darling. I cannot even dance with you as we used to.”
“As if I care about that!” Miss Winter exclaimed, with a fire Gwen would hardly have believed her capable of. “I don’t care what we can or can’t do; that isn’t why I’ve stayed by your side all these years. I love you, George!”
Gwen’s father looked up at her sharply, his eyes blazing in his pale, wan face. He raised a shaking hand to her cheek, and said, so softly that it was a miracle Gwen could hear him, “And I love you, Isabel, and always have.”
Miss Winter had leaned down, presumable to kiss him again, but Gwen had seen and heard enough. She stumbled back into the corridor and made her way to her own bedroom, not caring whether they had heard her or not, wanting only to run to her room and hide there until she could forget everything she had just seen.
**
“Gwendoline, dear, couldn’t you go and fetch my book for me?” Mother’s sweet, pretty little face took on a look of pitiful supplication. Gwen suppressed an urge to snap at her and said, “Your book is on the side table, Mother, you left it there yesterday.”
Mother gave her a reproachful look and went over to the side table herself. “So it is!” she exclaimed. “How clever you are.”
Gwen shook her head as Mother returned to her chair, and turned her attention back to the letter she was reading. Messrs Young and Trevelyan regretted that Miss Lacey should be put to inconvenience but it was beginning to be imperative that her outstanding bills should be settled with the firm without further delay. Perhaps Miss Lacey could make an appointment to meet Mr Young and settle the matter to everyone’s satisfaction?
Gwen sighed and tucked the letter back into its envelope, repressing an urge to fling it into the fire. There, that meant they should have to dispense with the services of Mrs Pinny.
“Mother,” she heard herself saying, “I don’t suppose you could do the dusting for Janet in the mornings? We’ll have to let Mrs Pinny go, you see, and then Janet would have to do the breakfast things and there wouldn’t be time for her to get lunch.” Even as she said it, she knew exactly what Mother was going to say.
“Oh, Gwen, how can you be so unkind? You know how dust affects me, it should bring on one of my headaches in a minute. I really think,” Mother went on petulantly, “that you might consider before you asked me such things.”
Gwen gritted her teeth. “Yes, Mother,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, “but surely you see that with only one maid we have to do things that are not always convenient to us.”
It was a mistake: Mother’s face had crumpled at the mention of the maid. “Oh, Gwendoline, dear, I can’t bear it! When I think of the servants we used to have and how lovely this house was, and now your father so ill and everything so dusty and miserable!” She began to sob. “And you’ve grown so hard, Gwen, you and Miss Winter! I’ve no one to turn to for comfort, no one who understands…”
The letter in Gwen’s hand crumpled in her suddenly over-tight grip as she remembered Daddy’s face, nearly a month ago now, lit by a flickering fire, and the warmth and kindness in his voice and eyes as he said but who takes care of you, Isabel?
It was true, Gwen thought with sudden guilt. Miss Winter was utterly consumed by her care for Mr Lacey, and Gwen had no inclination to soothe Mother’s frets anymore even if she had had the time. She had quickly realised that Mother’s tears came easiest when she felt herself neglected, and after that it had been hard to have sympathy for her.
The tragedy of her husband’s illness, for Mother, was her tragedy, rather than his: it was her happiness that had been blasted, her life spoiled. She had very little to do with Daddy in the sick-room, and almost as little to do with the running of the house. All she seemed to do was sit in her favourite chair by the sitting room fire, and bemoan her fate.
And I might have turned out just like her¸ Gwen thought. Well, at least one good thing had come out of Daddy’s illness. She sighed, and then made the effort to give her mother a cheerful smile. “Look here, Mother, I’ve a letter from Darrell, from St. Andrews. I’ll read it to you, shall I? She writes very well.”
It was entirely the truth: Darrell was a witty and engaging writer, and moreover her letters were always full of Sally and Alicia and Betty, as well as news from Mary-Lou, and the riding school, and all of their Malory Towers friends. Mother had always listened to her school stories before, and Gwen enlarged on them now, talking and laughing a good deal more than she felt like doing in an effort to cheer her mother up.
Half-way through the letter, Mother made a despairing gesture, and said plaintively, “Oh, Gwendoline, must you read that aloud? Do sit quietly for a while, dear, I feel one of my headaches coming on.”
Gwen’s mouth snapped shut. As if she’d been reading aloud and laughing like a fool for her own amusement!
“And later,” Mother went on, “perhaps you’d bring me a little weak tea…”
“Later,” Gwen said stiffly, “I will be helping Janet with dinner.” She stuffed her letter angrily in a pocket and marched to the door.
“Oh, Gwen,” sobbed Mother behind her, “I do feel so alone!”
Gwen, her hand on the doorknob, paused. Poor Mother. If only… the image of Daddy and Miss Winter by the fire, one crippled and in pain and the other worn thin with worry, suddenly intruded. And yet they’d been so happy, because they’d had each other.
And left Mother alone, Gwen thought, whirling back to her mother on a sudden tide of protective fury. “I’ll get your tea before I start dinner, Mother,” she said, kneeling by her chair and putting a hand on her arm. “And wouldn’t you like a dry biscuit?”
Mother smiled tremulously, projecting an air of uncomplaining suffering. “Thank you, dear. And if you’d just see to my mending… I really don’t feel at all well…”
Gwen sighed.
**
The fire crackled merrily in the background as Gwen sat, hands twisted in her lap, wishing more than anything that she could just get up and walk away from this conversation that she had never wanted, that she had done everything to avoid until Miss Winter had run her to ground in the sitting room and said you’ve found out somehow, haven’t you?
Abruptly Miss Winter spoke, breaking the dreadful silence that had followed the first loud recriminations. “I’ve no wish to force a confidence on you, Gwendoline, but you must please understand. I don’t want you to think that your father is the man to—that he would—”
“But he did,” Gwen said stubbornly. To her surprise, Miss Winter didn’t protest.
“I love my mother,” Gwen added quietly, “and I can’t like that she’s being made a fool. I expect you don’t understand. I know she’s… well, she’s Mother. But…”
It had always been Mother who’d listened, Mother who’d caressed and praised her and thought she was wonderful. Daddy had always been disappointed, somehow. Gwen remembered, all of a sudden, Daddy, three years ago when she’d pretended to have a weak heart, sitting in this very room saying why do you make it so hard for me to be proud of you, and to love you, Gwendoline?
“Mother always loved me,” she croaked around the lump in her throat, and then wished she hadn’t. It sounded so silly and childish.
Miss Winter, however, looked horrified rather than disapproving, and reached out a hand to her. “Oh, Gwendoline, no! Your father loves you too, you know. Very much.”
Gwen sniffed hard to hold back the tears and thought, but he loves you more.
Miss Winter said, hesitently, “It wasn’t that he didn’t—that we—we were both—very lonely.”
“Miss Winter,” Gwen protested miserably, but Miss Winter went on, the words stuttering as if they hurt to speak. “Of course he had you, but you were very little, and then you had gone away to school, and there were only the three of us. And Geor—you father was busy and overworked. You don’t know how much,” she said, suddenly fierce. “How hard he worked for your fees and all your lovely things—and he wanted you to have them, he never grudged you that—”
“I never said he did,” Gwen said feebly, but Miss Winter had plunged furiously on. “And all that talk about that school—there wasn’t the money for it, he was so worried, and your mother being the way she was, and you were so unkind to him—”
Gwen drew in a sharp breath. “Stop,” she begged, hating to be reminded of the way she’d treated her father in those precious months, those months that for so long had seemed like the last. The tears that she’d held and held broke free, and she choked on a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Winter said quickly, “it’s just that I want you to understand—”
“I don’t want to understand!” Gwen burst out. “I don’t want to know! I want everything to be as it used to, I want never to have found out, I want to be back at school and w-worrying about my marks and tennis and s-swimming!” She buried her face in her hands and allowed herself a few furious sobs.
“I know,” Miss Winter said quietly, and a dry voice in Gwen’s head pointed out that Miss Winter probably wanted her at school and safely out of the way, as she’d been all these years, quite as much as Gwen did.
Miss Winter didn’t say any more, and at last Gwen sniffed and groped for her handkerchief, mopping her face and scrubbing carefully at her runny nose. Miss Winter watched her silently, her face grave and her hands folded in her lap. She hadn’t wheedled and fussed, as Mother used to do when Gwen cried, but somehow her quiet steady presence was comforting on its own.
Miss Winter really was dreadfully plain, Gwen thought, eying the way her thin face looked even thinner in the shadow thrown by the fire. She had drab brown hair, brown eyes, and, now that the fire of her protective anger had banked, a sort of peering, aplogetic expression that reminded Gwen rather of Mary-Lou at her most timid. But then, Gwen reminded herself, Mary-Lou had turned out to be not timid at all, but quite marvellous...
“What are you thinking, Gwen?”
Gwen hadn’t been expecting the question—or indeed any question at all—and was startled into replying honestly. “That you’re nothing like Mother,” she heard herself saying, and was immediately appalled.
She had not startled Miss Winter any more than she had herself: Gwen watched almost dispassionately as the thin face drained of colour. “Oh, Gwen, dear,” faltered Miss Winter. Gwen let her grope for words for a moment and then decided she’d had enough.
“Not just that you don’t look like her, I don’t mean that,” she said, although she did a little bit. “It’s… well, she’s been so difficult since Daddy fell ill, and you’ve been rather wonderful.”
Miss Winter’s cheeks wend from pale to red.
“I expect,” Gwen said slowly, speaking the thought as it came to her, “it was something like that, wasn’t it? How it started. With—with Daddy,” she added, with difficulty.
Miss Winter faltered, and stammered, but really it wasn’t an answer she could give Gwen. It certainly wasn’t an answer Gwen wanted. She stuffed her handkerchief into her pocket and stood, putting down her book. “We needn’t talk about it any more, Miss Winter, need we?” she said, pleadingly.
Miss Winter eyed her nervously. “You won’t say anything to your father?”
“I didn’t want to say anything to you,” Gwen pointed out, and Miss Winter smiled briefly.
Gwen sighed. “No,” she said at last. “I’ll not do anything to worry Daddy. I do love him, too, you know.” Miss Winter looked rather ashamed at the reminder, and Gwen was conscious of a little mean triumph. ‘Darling Isabel’ needn’t think she was the only one who cared about Daddy.
“Well, goodnight,” Gwen said, after they’d looked at each other in silence for a moment. She turned to the door without waiting for a reply.
“Gwen,” said Miss Winter behind her, and Gwen suppressed a desire to scream. She couldn’t listen to any more, she just couldn’t...
“Will you start sitting with your father in the evenings again?” asked Miss Winter gently, and Gwen turned around, surprised, for she hadn’t expected that. Miss Winter, framed by the glowing fire and looking plainer than ever, smiled at her. “He’s missed you.”
“I,” Gwen faltered. “Yes, of course.”
**
Gwen tucked the rug around Daddy’s legs and adjusted a cushion at his side, supporting his weak left hand. “There,” she said, pleased. “That’s more comfortable, isn’t it?”
“Much,” Daddy agreed, and Gwen looked up, for he’d sounded tense and worried. “Daddy?” she said carefully. “Is something the matter?” There was a small, puckered frown on Daddy’s face, and he was staring intently at her. “Daddy?” she said again.
“Gwen,” he said, slowly, as he always talked now. “Sit down, Gwen, and let me look at you.” Gwen obeyed, puzzled but willing as she always was now to do as he asked.
He studied her in silence, and then said, “Have you been ill? Miss Winter never said anything…”
“Ill?” Gwen said in surprise. “Why, no. I’m never ill, you know, Daddy.” A year ago, she mused wryly, she would never have dreamed of saying such a thing, but the last thing she wanted was for Daddy to worry about her, with his own health so precarious.
“You look tired,” persisted her father. “You’ve not been sleeping?”
“Oh, no, I am,” Gwen assured him. “It’s just been a long day, that’s all.” She smiled brightly at him, and he frowned at her for a while longer before sighing and sitting back. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me if you had been,” he said fretfully. “You none of you tell me things, now.”
“Oh, no, Daddy,” Gwen said soothingly. “There’s nothing to tell, you know. I’ve only just come back from the secretarial school, so I daresay I look fagged, but I’m quite all right really.”
Daddy eyed her consideringly. “Do you like the school?”
“Oh,” Gwen said uncomfortably, “not terribly. I’m rather dreadful at bookkeeping and things, and it’s awfully hard, you know.” She brightened. “But they all say it’s easier once you’ve got a job.”
Daddy smiled at her, and she smiled back, quite used by now to the way once side of his face smiled more than the other.
“I shall be glad when you’ve got a job,” he said unexpectedly.
Gwen nodded, wondering who had let slip that they’d got behindhand with the bills again. It must have been Mother—Miss Winter would never have said a thing. “I know,” she said bracingly, “but it’s not so bad, you know, and I’ll be finished with my course in a week, and then it’ll be Christmas. I daresay I’ll have found a job by the New Year. Then we needn’t worry.”
Daddy sighed. “Yes, but that isn’t what I meant.” Gwen looked questioningly at him, and he pinched her cheek lightly, something he hadn’t done in years. “This is a very dull life for you, Gwen. It’s not what I wanted at all. When you’ve got your job you shall be with other young people, and you’ll be able to have a little fun.”
Gwen went red, even as tears stung her eyes. It was dull, and miserable, and horrid, and even when she had a job it would still be miserable, working all day and coming home to more work, more of Mother’s tears and ‘sick headaches’. She blinked hard to chase away the prick of tears, and saw Daddy looking at her worriedly, his frown fiercer on one side of his face.
Abruptly she felt ashamed. No matter how horrid it was now, she ought never to forget that it could have been worse, that she might have had all this to do without these quiet, friendly hours with Daddy. She might never have had Daddy again—Daddy, who sat here in his chair all day, duller than even Gwen, and still found it in himself to worry that she wasn’t getting any fun.
“Oh, it’s not so dreadful, you know, Daddy,” she said, trying to be cheerful and hearing the wobble in her voice. She went on, stoutly, “I’ve got Janet for help about the house, and you know Miss Winter’s been quite splendid.” At once she wished she hadn’t said that—Daddy’s face always went soft when she spoke about Miss Winter, and he usually forgot all about Gwen.
This time, however, Daddy’s off-centre smile was directed at Gwen herself. “Has she?” he said gently. “I hear you’ve been rather splendid yourself.”
“Oh!” faltered Gwen, going red again and looking hurriedly at the fire. Daddy laughed gently. “From what Miss Winter tells me, my dear, the house runs on your word.” He took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “We’d all be quite lost without you, Gwen.”
Why, oh, why couldn’t she say something light and friendly, and stop him saying these things? This was dreadful!
“I have to admit,” Daddy went on, “that I’ve been worried, Gwen, about what would happen to us. But you’ve done me very proud, dear. There’s a strength in you that I didn’t know you had.”
Gwen said nothing: her head was whirling with a brand-new revelation. Before… before she’d found out, hearing Daddy say that would have been beyond her wildest dreams. Now when she knew that Daddy himself was neither perfect nor beyond reproach, the pride in his voice should have lost its value—and yet… she realised, sitting there holding her father’s hand, that he would never again be some remote figure that she would always disappoint, but a real person, flawed and struggling, perhaps, just as hard as Gwen did to do right.
“Oh, Daddy,” she managed, and threw her arms around him as she never had on all the half-terms when he’d taken time off that he couldn’t afford to come and see her.
Daddy’s good arm came up to return the embrace. “Dear little Gwenny,” he said quietly, and Gwen squeezed him tighter—he hadn’t called her that since she’d been a very small girl, when he’d used to sit by the fire listening to her talk for hours.
At last she sat back, wiped the tears off her face, and beamed sunnily at him. “Perhaps I did get something from Malory Towers after all,” she said, and heard in her voice the pride that she hadn’t even known she had for her school.
Daddy grinned lopsidedly at her. “Perhaps you did,” he agreed.
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