After Edward had let himself out, Celia and her mother exchanged anxious glances, each knowing they would be coming face to face with a reality that wasn't entirely welcome.

      "How's Robin going to take this?" asked Celia, voicing her mother's concern.  "Of course, he spends so much time in his room these days, I doubt if he and Mr. Muller will cross paths except at meal times.  Oh God, I do hope the man doesn't insist we call him Herr Muller."

      "My dear, we don't have to call him anything if we don't like him.  In fact there's no need to have him here at all if you'd rather not."

      Celia rose unsteadily to her feet.

      "No, except you wouldn't want to disappoint Edward.  Perhaps I need more time to think.  It is okay if I go and have my bath now?"

      "Of course.  But won't you stay and meet Mr. Muller first?"

      "I'll maybe come down later, if he's still here, but right now I feel too fragile.  I doubt if I can make the effort to be polite to any stranger this evening, so convey my apologies, please."

      There were times when Celia needed to be alone, when she could shed some of the irksome equipment she wore, and find relief from the day's discomfort.  Her mother smiled encouragement as Celia made her weary way upstairs.  Then she set about tidying the room to give the newcomer a good impression.

      On reflection Celia felt it wise to postpone her bath.  There was a house-rule that she always left the door unlocked in case she ever had a serious fall while getting in or out of the bath.  This was going to be another problem.  It was bad enough when Robin occasionally forgot, but to have a total stranger suddenly barging in - she shuddered at the thought as she lay on top of her bed and listened.

      Soon the front door bell made a jarring discord against the dying sounds of the vacuum cleaner.  She heard Robin's pounding footsteps as he came racing along the middle landing, and she heard Edward's voice downstairs, gentle and soothing; her mother's too, making the effort to sound extra jolly.  Then came a curt foreign voice, one which brought a chilling stab of apprehension that reached deep into Celia's very soul.

      "Come, sit down, both of you," Florence was saying heartily.  "Make yourselves at home.  Do you like tea, Mr. Muller, or would you prefer coffee?"

      "I just had a pint of lager," came the reply, clipped and precise.  "But yes, I would like some tea, thank you Mrs. Moss.  Mr. Rustington has already told me what a tea-expert you are."

      "Well, don't breathe a word of this to Mr. Rustington, but the real tea-expert is my daughter Celia - she's upstairs.  I'm sorry you just missed her."

      Celia heard her name mentioned several times, later in more hushed tones as if maybe they were discussing her disability.

      "She's upstairs having a bath," Robin confided hoarsely, "and I warn you now, we have strict rules about that event.  Celia's nine years older than me, and still regards me as her baby brother.  But believe me, once I start earning a proper income there'll be some big changes around here."

      Edward explained how Robin was under articles with a firm of Chartered Accountants, and currently struggling with his final exams.  From the response it was clear Paul Muller had served a similar apprenticeship in his own field.

      "I thought I'd never qualify as a British architect, Robin, but I did in the end, thank God, largely with the help of this kind man."

      Then she heard her mother's ever-practical voice.

      "Get the little table out, Robin.  Why, thank you, Mr. Muller.  Oh, do sit down again, please.  Help yourself to sugar.  I hope there's enough."

      The newcomer was evidently on his best behaviour, something that Celia knew wouldn't go down at all well with Robin.

      At last came the all-important subject of the spare room, and again Celia heard the German voice.  This time it didn't sound quite so threatening.

      "You see, Mrs. Moss," he laughed pleasantly, "hotels are not only expensive but very lonely places.  Full of guests, yes, but all of them strangers.  I really want to find myself a family home instead of lodgings, somewhere where there are people I can talk to in the evenings, and a good friendly atmosphere."

      Celia knew her mother couldn't resist a plea like that.  In her next breath she was inviting her guest to move in at once, until Edward intervened.

      "Actually, Paul and I are dining with a client this evening.  I'll see that he's comfortably taken care of tonight, but suppose I'll deliver him here, with luggage, at around six-thirty tomorrow evening.  How's that?"

      Celia quite expected the party to troop upstairs and show Mr. Muller his room, directly above hers, but there was no such intrusion, and she next heard his final seal of approval out in the front garden.

      "I'm so glad you found me somewhere nice to live, Edward.  This is perfect.  Lovely people too - I'm sure I'll be very happy here."

      But predictably, once their visitor had gone, Robin felt the need to voice a string of adverse comments, most of them in a loud pseudo-German accent.

      "Well, you've done it now.  Zank you very much indeed, Frau Moss, you are all brimming over viss all your kindness.  And what about Celia?" he added more cautiously.  "You and I can forget the past, but she lives every day with a permanent reminder of those damned Nazis."

      Florence's kindly admonishing reply was equally predictable.

      "Robin, my lamb, you're so naive.  Maybe you haven't yet realised how I thank God every minute of the day that she's still a living part of our family, able to walk about and joke and breathe God's good air, unlike poor David and your father.  And personally, for what it's worth, I found Paul Muller to be a delightful young man, and if the decision were left to me, I'd welcome him with open arms."

      Soon Celia heard the inevitable soft tread of her mother's footsteps.  Fingers drummed lightly on the bedroom door and a welcome face appeared.

      "Hallo, pet.  Feeling more relaxed?"

      "A little.  I was just debating whether to come down for a glass of milk, but I decided I'd wait until they'd gone."

      "They have now.  But don't bother coming down, I'll bring you some supper presently."  Florence turned to go, then paused in the doorway.  "I am actually a bit worried about Robin, though.  Now that I've accepted our guest, he seems to be having second thoughts, which is a pity.  Mr. Muller does seem a very nice young man."

      "I'm sure he is, though in a way I can understand how Robin feels.  Lying here listening to that voice, I couldn't help imagining - what if there had been an invasion and I was hiding upstairs when German soldiers stormed into the house?  That's just how it might have sounded.  And it's going to be horribly embarrassing if anyone happens to mention the war.  Robin's bound to eventually, just for the hell of it."

      "And it just might do us all a lot of good.  I'm sure you'll like the man when you meet him.  We settled on three pounds a week."

      "That's not much," said Celia.  "You could probably have got five if you'd asked."

      "I dare say, but I don't want Edward thinking we're out for every penny we can grab.  I'd much rather ask a modest amount and give value for money.  To be honest, I felt mean asking for three.  I know the original idea was simply to gain the extra income, but now that I've met Mr. Muller, I feel our first duty is to give him a good home."

      "You make him sound like a lost puppy."

      "And in some ways that's what he is.  It must be awful, being alone in a foreign country with no home or relatives he can turn to."

      "Honestly, Mum, you're nothing but an old softy.  And that's precisely why everybody loves you."

      The following morning, Celia stayed in bed and tried to improve the wording for her job application letters.  But no amount of scribbling or alteration seemed to achieve the desired result.  At the first mention of her disability she sensed her efforts would be dismissed as little more than begging letters, reminding her of Hoskins's harsh remarks about commercial firms not being charitable institutions.

      At ten o'clock she felt the need to hop along to the bathroom.  With no-one else in the house she seldom used her false leg or crutches for this short journey.  But even though he hadn't yet moved in, she was now deeply conscious of Mr. Muller's intrusion, and began to resent her loss of freedom, knowing she would always need to be on her guard and far more discreet.

      Celia would happily have spent the entire day in bed, but she conceded she had a duty to welcome Mr. Muller's arrival.  She would have to face him some time, and it might be fun making herself presentable for a well-timed grand entrance, say at about a quarter to seven.

      But fine ideas don't always go according to plan, and their guest came to the house half an hour earlier than expected.  Celia was making pastry in the kitchen and up to her elbows in flour.  Florence was on the top floor, casting a critical eye over what was to be Paul Muller's bedroom, and happened to glance out of the window.  She saw Edward's car drawing up outside, and hurried downstairs to let them both in.  But by the time she reached the door, Edward was already driving off with a cheerful wave, leaving Paul standing there, full of apologies.

      "I'm so sorry," he began.  "Please excuse me being so early like this.  If it isn't suitable, may I leave my luggage here and return at six-thirty as arranged?"

      "Don't be silly, Mr. Muller, you're welcome at any time.  Come on in."

      Paul lugged two huge suitcases in from the front path and set them down in the hall.

      "Mr. Rustington has another appointment this evening," he explained.  "I could have waited outside, but you might have wondered why I was standing in your front garden like an ornamental gnome."

      "You did quite the right thing," said Florence with a laugh.  She ushered him into the living room where she offered him the big armchair, and then quickly excused herself to join Celia in the kitchen.

      "Wouldn't you know it?" she whispered urgently.  "He's here already.  Leave that.  Go and introduce yourself.  I'll take over now."

      Celia felt humiliated as she quickly washed her hands at the sink.

      "I can't possibly meet him like this," she hissed.  "You said he wasn't coming till six-thirty."

      "I know, but Edward had to dash off somewhere, and we can hardly expect the man to hang around on street corners for half an hour with all that luggage.  Go and say hallo.  You look lovely."

      Florence gave her daughter a mother's kiss and opened the door.

      "Mr. Muller," she announced.  "Here's the other member of our family whom you didn't meet last night."

      One of Celia's biggest failings was that she could never fully appreciate how strikingly attractive she was.  Caught off guard, her sudden flush of embarrassment added exciting touches of fresh colour to her cheeks.

      "Hallo," she grinned, her smile confident as ever.  "I'm Celia."

      Paul stood up as she appeared, and nodded boyishly.  He was at least six feet tall, with a healthy outdoor complexion and friendly eyes that carried a built-in smile.  His thick blond hair seemed to grow straight back from his forehead, almost like a wig.

      "I'm Paul Muller," he said, standing firmly to attention and taking her hand as she approached.  "How are you feeling today?  Better, I hope?"

      "A little, yes, thank you.  Do sit down."

      Paul waited until Celia was seated comfortably on the settee before he resumed his position in the armchair.

      "Well now," he began as Florence sidled quietly away to the kitchen, "I understand you're looking for a new job?"

      Goodness, Celia thought, he sounds as if he's trying to interview me.

      "Yes," she replied modestly.  "I'm a short-hand typist."

      "Ah, but why not call yourself a stenographer?" he asked with an infectious twinkle.  "The title alone is worth two extra pounds a week."

      "I don't mind what they call the job as long as I get one," she said.  "In my old job, I was merely one of twenty girls, all a lot more energetic than me."

      "Yes, I'm sorry.  I gather from Mr. Rustington that things didn't turn out too well there.  But surely they didn't just throw you out?"

      "Not literally, no.  But they made it clear I no longer fitted in with the new regime, so I left of my own accord, after giving my boss a farewell valediction that ensured my resignation was irrevocable."

      "Perhaps you felt better after letting off your steam?"

      "Psychologically, yes!  Financially, no!"

      It struck Celia that her desire to impress the newcomer was making her use needlessly long words.  She wondered how much he could understand.

      "Never mind," he said.  "I'm sure a better job will soon turn up.  Let your guardian angel wave his magic wand over you.  No, that can't be right.  It's fairy godmothers who have wands, isn't it - your guardian angel will have to wave his harp if it's not too heavy."

      She smiled at his natural humour.  "You believe in all that?  About guardian angels?"

      "Well, to be honest, who knows?  I said that purely as a figure of speech.  But, since you ask, and if you promise not to broadcast it to the world, yes, I think I do.  How about you?"

      Celia found herself confronted by the most enthralling pair of eyes, serious and steely grey, yet aglow with warmth and good humour.

      "Oh, so do I," she nodded, "though personally I think mine's taking his annual holiday.  And I do know that's not him crashing in through the front door."

      Robin had just made his usual noisy entrance, and headed straight for the armchair, stopping short as he realised it might now be Paul Muller's privilege to occupy it all evening.

      "Mum," he called, "I'm home!"

      "I rather think she's aware of that," said Celia.  "Have you ever thought of opening the door quietly?"

      Before Robin could start an argument, Florence came in carrying a plate of sandwiches which she set down on the coffee table.

      "Robin," she prompted him urgently, noticing her visitor's luggage, "why don't you take Mr. Muller's cases upstairs for him?"

      But their guest wouldn't hear of it.

      "No, please," he insisted, leaping to his feet.  "Let me do that.  And may I ask you each to call me Paul?  It takes much less time to say."

      "Very well, Paul," she replied.  "Help yourself to sandwiches if you're hungry.  There'll be steak and kidney pie in about an hour - although if there's anything else you'd prefer, let me know, and I'll see what I can arrange."

      "Everything's fine, thank you," Paul assured her.  "But please, first before I eat, may I go somewhere and wash my hands?"

      "Sorry - yes, of course.  Come upstairs, and I'll show you where everything is."

      With a gentlemanly bow to Celia and a nod towards Robin, Paul picked up his luggage and followed Florence up the stairs, eager to explore his new territory.  Celia chose to accompany them.

      "As you see," said Florence on the first landing, "it's a small house, but luckily we do have three floors.  On this level you'll find the bathroom at the back.  There's only one, I'm afraid, so please forgive us if it causes a problem and we'll arrange a morning timetable.  That's my room there, and Celia has the slightly larger room in front.  Follow me to the next layer where we have two more rooms.  Robin's at the back, and yours is directly above Celia."

      They continued to the top floor and into Paul's new room, which had a low sloping ceiling and a small dormer window looking out onto the road.  It was sparsely furnished with an old walnut wardrobe and a heavy chest of drawers.  In the far corner stood a marble-topped washstand, equipped with a jug of water, soap and hand towels.  The bed bore a floral counterpane, perhaps a little too pretty for a man's room, Celia felt, but it matched the curtains at the window.  The bare wooden floor was relieved by a central oval rug.

      Florence hovered apprehensively by the door, praying Paul would find everything suitable.  She would love to have offered him something more luxurious, but she'd done all she could without spending money she didn't have.  Though Paul nodded his approval, she still felt a need to apologise.

      "I did wonder, Paul, whether you would prefer one of the other rooms.  If so, I'm sure we can rearrange things.  I daren't show you Robin's room right now, but it's similar to this, with a view over the garden.  I need to be next to Celia's room, you understand, in case she needs anything in the night, and of course she has to be on the same level as the bathroom."

      Paul reassured her at once.

      "Don't worry.  Everything is just fine.  I like being high up.  Easier to keep in touch with my guardian angel," he added, catching Celia's eye.

      "Well, we'll leave you in peace for a while," said Florence.  "You'll no doubt prefer to wash your hands in warm water, so I suggest you take one of those towels and use the bathroom.  Oh, I meant to include an electric kettle - I'll bring it up later.  And do let me know if there's anything else you need.  There's no extra charge in this house for room service."

      Celia shared her mother's concern about the suitability of the room, but they left the man to unpack and made their way downstairs.  It might have been different if he had been a complete stranger, but Paul was evidently a well-established friend of Edward Rustington, whose approval meant a great deal to Florence.

      "He did say don't worry," Celia whispered on the stairs.  "Remember, he's a friend of the family - well, almost."

      Down below, Robin was hunting for a stamp, having just sealed one of his test papers ready to post to his correspondence college.

      "People in this house are writing too many letters," he grumbled as he rummaged through the bureau like a dog digging up leaves.  "Where the hell are the flaming stamps?"

      Florence eyed him with weary disapproval.

      "Interesting question!  I wonder how Paul would have phrased it?  Unlike you, he'd probably say 'Excuse me, do you know whether we have any postage stamps, please?'"

      "Yes, well I find him annoying.  Uncle Edward may be convinced his protégé can do no wrong, but we've only his word for that.  We know nothing about the man, beyond the fact that he looks like a gaunt version of Tarzan, and he's German and irritatingly polite."

      "Surely an accountant would treat the latter as an asset, Robin, not a liability.  Incidentally, the stamps you asked for so nicely are in the top cubby hole."

      "He must have fought against us in the war," Robin went on.  "He looks the right age."

      "It's quite possible.  But even if he did, young man, I'd rather house a German like him than those ill-mannered louts who come lurching out of the Black Swan at closing time, I don't care how British they are."

      "He's certainly made an impression on you," Robin observed with a stony glance as he applied his damp tongue to a stamp.

      His mother returned a persuasive smile.  "All well-behaved, courteous young men make a good impression on me, Robin, as you may yet discover."

      The boy feigned politeness and backed out of the room in a servile grovel.  "I must just nip along to the jolly old pillar box and post this missive, if you don't mind excusing me for one tiny wee moment."

      For one awful moment Celia thought Robin was about to give a Nazi salute, and that Paul might see it.  But instead he clicked his heels, did a passable imitation of a Prussian bow, and bounded through the front door like a wild bull.

      The two women looked at each other and said nothing.  But Celia could sense that open hostility might easily develop between Robin and their visitor.  It was as if someone had brought into the house a ticking time-bomb, and it was her duty to defuse it.  But how?

      A week later, as the others were downstairs having breakfast, Celia paused on her way to the bathroom and overheard Paul's magnanimous offer.

      "I'd like it as a welcoming party," he said, "but to make it an occasion, and not extra work for the ladies of the house, we will go to a restaurant of your choice."

      If Celia had been dressed she would certainly have hurried down to lend her support to the idea.  Instead she hovered on the middle landing and listened.  Judging by the lack of a response, it seemed neither of the others were at all keen; yet Paul remained undeterred.

      "Nothing too fancy," he elaborated.  "Just a pleasant evening out, and of course you must allow me to treat you all."

      "It's very kind of you, Paul," replied Florence, trying to cover for Robin's bland indifference.  "But tonight could be difficult.  Maybe later on, when we're not so busy?"

      "Yes," Paul persisted, "but it should not be delayed too long, or it will celebrate my leaving here more than my coming."

      Celia could imagine Robin's reaction to that!  She heard him mumble something about being late as he clattered his knife and fork together, bade his mother a perfunctory goodbye, and scampered off to catch his bus.

      Florence did her best to apologise.  "I suppose when you're studying for exams, little else matters, least of all good manners.  Please forgive him, Paul, he's under a lot of pressure."

      "Of course.  It is hard when you have to work all day and study at night too.  A bad time for having a good time," he added with a laugh.

      "Robin doesn't much enjoy eating out or having to remember his table manners.  That's what comes of not having a father to take a firm hand."

      Paul's voice softened.  "Ah, yes.  It is especially hard for you, I know.  But I don't believe life is hard all the time.  You may have the rough now, but soon you will be having the smooth, you'll see."

      "I'm afraid it's been the rough here for quite a while," Florence reflected sadly.  "But this won't do.  What time will you be home this evening?"

      "That depends whether I am taking anyone out to dinner," he repeated.  "I warn you, I am a stubborn mule, and don't easily take No for an answer."

      "I'm sure.  But honestly, Paul, I have too many things to do this evening," Florence explained.  "The curtain in your room has a loose hem, and I must get it mended - I can't let it stay like that a moment longer."

      "I hadn't noticed," he said kindly, "and truly it's not upsetting me."

      "Nevertheless it is upsetting me," she echoed.  "But why don't you and Celia go out together, just the two of you?"

      "I did intend we would all four celebrate, but if that's too difficult and if Celia would enjoy my company, I'd be honoured to take her instead.  May I go upstairs and ask her?"

      "I rather think she's still asleep, Paul.  But I'll find out and let you know.  Actually, I think it'd do her a world of good, as long as you pick somewhere quiet."

      "I know somewhere very suitable," he said, "but I prefer we leave it as a surprise.  I'll come home at six o'clock, and expect her to be ready.  You simply tell her it'll be somewhere tasteful but informal.  And you're welcome to join us if you change your mind.  I'll book a table for three."

      But Florence had already decided.  "Paul, it's extremely kind of you, but you and Celia should go on your own.  She'll enjoy that, I know."

      "And so shall I.  You don't feel perhaps a chaperon is needed?"

      "Go on, Paul, don't be silly," Florence laughed.

      All the same, Celia thought, it was reassuring that Paul should ask.

      As Paul left the house, he happened to glance up at the first floor and saw Celia at her window peering cautiously through net curtains.  Too late she drew back, but realising she had already been seen, she gave with a friendly wave as the new member of the household set off briskly down the road.

      She was still totally convinced that no man, let alone someone as striking as Paul, could ever find her even remotely attractive - an odd flaw in this young lady who had always prided herself on being a excellent judge of character.

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