Nurse Linnet's Release by Averil Ives

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    “It isn’t that I allow them flights of that sort. Looking at you I couldn’t do anything else!”
    She suddenly felt herself blushing—very definitely blushing, in the way which always annoyed her, because she felt it was so obvious, and she had so little control over the rush of blood to her cheeks.
    “Let’s dance!” he said, quickly, and without waiting for her permission, as the orchestra was just starting up a waltz, he swept her into his arms and out on the floor. Linnet felt the oddest little feeling of sudden excitement inside her, for amongst the many attractive females there that night there were a good many, she knew, who would have regarded an opportunity to dance with Adrian Shane Willoughby, Tropical Fever Expert, and although many years younger than Sir Paul Loring already away up in his rarefied class, as the high spot of the evening.
    But Linnet only knew that she had thought him an extremely attractive man from the moment she had first met him, and in addition she thought him an extremely humane man. She was quite sure that he was fundamentally, and in every other way, nice. She found herself recalling echoes of his voice, and remembering things he had said to her, days after he had said them, and when the echoes should have been forgotten. But she was quite sure that the only woman’s voice he seriously bothered himself about was that of Diana Carey.
    Not only was he slowly but surely getting her completely well again, but he was making himself responsible for her in all sorts of ways—even to the extent of first attempting to enlist Linnet’s sympathy in the case of the attractive widow (all the sympathy of which she was capable) but had gone out of his way to arrange things with the matron of Aston House in order that Linnet, in whose sympathy and attentiveness he trusted, should continue her ministrations where Diana was concerned, and help her towards even more rapid recovery.
    As they circled the room, and the tuneful Viennese waltz made doing so a delight, she was aware that he was holding her almost as closely as Roger Sherringham, but there was a difference. With Roger she had the feeling that the hold might at any moment become much more embarrassing, but with Adrian Shane Willoughby there was, she felt sure, no fear of that. In spite of his close hold, there was a certain amount of detachment about it. But it was a beautifully safe and secure hold, and she knew that their steps matched perfectly.
    Then suddenly she found herself thinking of Guy Monteith, away up in the north of Scotland. Although he had promised to do so he had not so far telephoned her. She was not sure how she felt about that. She only knew that if he did telephone her she would find it terribly difficult to say “no” if he asked to see her again. She had a strong feeling that she should—that indeed she ought to say “no”—but there was something about even the tones of his voice that destroyed, or practically destroyed, her will-power. When she found herself looking into his eyes she seemed to have no will-power at all, and the knowledge was a little inclined to frighten her.
    She found herself wishing suddenly that instead of only going into Hertfordshire—Guy’s own country!—with Diana, she was going really far away with her, to some spot where it would be most difficult for anyone to get in touch with her unless they had some really pressing reason for doing so.
    But she mustn’t overlook the fact, as she reminded herself, that it was quite on the cards that she never would hear any more from Guy Monteith.
    When the dance was ended Dr. Shane Willoughby thanked her courteously, and then looked a little amused when he saw her escort standing waiting for her—not looking any too pleased—on the edge of the floor.
    “I’m afraid I’ve interfered a little with Dr. Sherringham’s plans for the evening,” he remarked. “But I enjoyed that dance very much. Thank you again, Nurse—I mean