I and My True Love by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page B

apologised briefly for their intrusion, and were obviously quite at home in Pleydell’s house.
    It was difficult to distinguish them at first. They were about the same age: thirty or thereabouts. They both were thin, smooth-faced, with crew-cut hair. They wore dark flannel suits, narrow-shouldered, tight-legged. Their expensive brown shoes were well polished. Their ankles were neat in tightly gartered black socks. They had the same way of talking: quiet voices, half-drawled, flatly even. Their one touch of bravado was in their finely checked waistcoats. Of course they wore narrow bow ties. The only real difference seemed to be in their colouring. Whiteshaw was appropriately fair. Minlow was dark.
    They were such decorous and yet such wildly improbable young men that Kate was fascinated by them for almost three minutes. Why had Payton brought them along here tonight? Were they friends of his? Or was this Payton’s idea of providing some entertainment for his visiting cousin? If Payton had imagined he was producing some eligible young men—Kate checked her thoughts and felt suddenly embarrassed.
    Her embarrassment changed to amusement, however, once Payton Pleydell had talked to her. He spoke briefly, with charming good manners, but with an interest—if it did exist at all—kept under admirable control. It became obvious that he must have met Whiteshaw and Minlow at the club, where he had been having a late supper after a lengthy meeting, and then he had brought them along here as a matter of course. It became equally obvious that they were all very good friends. But why should I still feel puzzled? Kate wondered.
    Certainly, Payton was definitely master of ceremonies in his own calm but extremely effective way. He relaxed in a wing-chair dominating the hearth, and now it was very much his own particular corner. Kate was alarmed to think that only half an hour ago she had taken the liberty of sitting in that chair with her feet curled under her. His eyes watched each of his guests in proper turn, and his quiet additions to the conversation on the subject of recent Mayan discoveries in Yucatan were both well-informed and amusing. He neither monopolised the conversation nor let it flag. Kate’s impression of him changed: her initial disappointment turned to admiration. Of course Payton had only greeted her so briefly because he had so many other guests to entertain.
    She looked over at Sylvia to smile her congratulations on having a husband who could make Stewart Hallis a friend, win Miriam Hugenberg’s obvious respect, arouse the attention of Mr. Whiteshaw and Mr. Minlow, and even inspire Bob Turner to speak. But Sylvia was watching her husband as if she were studying him, as if she were the stranger from California. And I’m feeling as proud of Payton’s unobtrusive performance, Kate thought, as if I were the wife. She let a flush come to her cheeks for the stupidity of her words. And why did I call it “performance”? she wondered. I suppose I’m so tired with the journey and all the excitement and the food and the wine and the talk, that my mind just isn’t functioning.
    She let her spine relax in the pale grey velvet armchair which held her so comfortably, looked at the Latrobe mantelpiece against the white-panelled wall, listened to the voices drifting across the warmth of the room. Bob Turner was talking. (He hadn’t let himself be silenced by Stewart Hallis once, since the men had returned to the drawing-room.) “It’s possible,” he was saying, “that a sizeable exploring party did cross the Pacific and reach Central America. Judging by the skills and facial structures they left the Mayan—” And at that moment, Kate yawned. It was only a small yawn, suppressed by a quick, horrified hand. But it was definitely a yawn.
    Bob Turner stopped short. He would, of course: Stewart Hallis was amused. And Hallis said, “The ladies, God bless them, are always our severest critics.”
    Kate tried to smile an