Love in Our Time by Norman Collins Page B

and kissing him.
    â€œIt isn’t anything much,” Mr. Sneyd assured him. “I’m just going in for observation. They couldn’t make me out in Tadford.”
    â€œWill you be there long?”
    â€œOh, about a week.”
    â€œI’ll come in and see you.”
    â€œThanks very much, Gerald. I’ll be looking forward to that.”
    â€œI’ll be there too, Brother,” Mr. Biddle interjected. He spoke as one who swooped professionally on any opportunity to do a good turn.
    Mr. Sneyd turned appreciatively. “That’s uncommonly kind of you,” he said. “Are you sure you can spare the time?”
    â€œAnyone can spare the time if he plans his day properly … ” Mr. Biddle began. He did not finish because Alice came in carrying a tray with the best tea service set out on it. There was also a plate of rich, mixed biscuits. Alice looked young and pretty andefficient as she stood there; Mr. Sneyd reflected that Gerald had done well for himself.
    â€œWould you rather have some whisky?” Gerald asked; it was still the remains of Tony’s bottle of whisky that he was offering.
    Mr. Sneyd shook his head.
    â€œNever touch spirits,” he said. “Not used to them.”
    He stirred his tea noisily and set to work on the biscuits. It was noticeable that he took only the plain ones. He ate them hungrily, pushing the chocolate ones and jam squares to one side. Alice noticed this, too.
    â€œCan I get you anything else to eat?” she asked. “An egg or something.”
    Mr. Sneyd looked up gratefully.
    â€œNo, thank you, dear,” he said. “I had some sandwiches on the train.”
    He took another biscuit as he said it; Gerald sat in silence and watched him eat.
    He became aware quite suddenly that Alice was making signals to him. Like all wives she was proceeding on the assumption that the raising of a single eyebrow was sufficient to convey the exact meaning of something that was at once too private or too important to be spoken out loud. She kept jerking her head mysteriously in the direction of the ceiling. At the fourth jerk Gerald understood. She was proposing that they should invite Mr. Sneyd to spend the night with them.
    But Mr. Sneyd settled the point himself.
    â€œI must be getting back,” he said. “I go inside first thing in the morning.”
    â€œWhere are you stopping?” Gerald asked.
    â€œIt’s the hotel next door to the station,” Mr. Sneyd replied. “I don’t recall the name.”
    â€œWill just St. Martin’s find you?”
    â€œThat’s right,” agreed Mr. Sneyd. “You write to me there. I shan’t need any other address.”
    They said good-bye at some length. Mr. Sneyd seemed unnaturally grateful; he appeared remarkably touched that he should have been allowed to drink two cups of tea and eat a quarter of a pound of biscuits at his own son’s fireside. He left promising to write tomorrow to say how he liked St. Martin’s.
    Mr. Biddle insisted on leaving with him. On the way up to the tram-stop Mr. Biddle touched him on the arm.
    â€œHave you actually booked a room?” he asked.
    â€œWell, not exactly,” Mr. Sneyd admitted.
    â€œWhere’s your bag?”
    â€œI left it in the cloakroom.”
    â€œI could lend you a nightshirt,” he said. “I don’t wear pyjamas.”
    â€œNeither do I.”
    â€œWould you care to come along, Brother?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be putting you out?”
    â€œThere’s three bedrooms we never use.”
    â€œAnd Mrs. Biddle wouldn’t object?”
    â€œI’m a widower, Brother.”
    Mr. Sneyd held out his hand and Mr. Biddle took it.
    â€œHe’s a good lad, my Gerald,” Mr. Sneyd was saying. “He walked out on us but I don’t know that I blame him. It wasn’t easy for any of us.”
    They were sitting down in Mr. Biddle’s dining-room.