Edward and Paul went for lunch each day to a quiet restaurant, barely a minute's walk from their office.

      "It is as if they cannot forget I am from Germany," Paul said sadly as the two men lingered thoughtfully over coffee.

      "It's going to take time," Edward pointed out.  "As you know, Paul, those three didn't come out of the war with smiles on their faces, any more than you did.  But I firmly believe your presence there will help them readjust, provided you can handle it."

      Paul looked Edward straight in the eye.

      "All along you knew there might be some tension."

      "True," Edward nodded.  "That's why I went in first to sound them out.  But I was thinking of several aspects - some altruistic, others maybe less so."

      "Altruistic?" Paul queried.

      "Sorry, Paul.  Your English is so good, I keep forgetting it's not your mother tongue."

      "But it is my mother's tongue."

      "Exactly!  You understand so well, people forget English isn't natural to you.  And in case they serve it up in tonight's crossword, altruism is a benevolent regard for others, the opposite of being selfish."

      "Are you saying you had selfish motives besides these altruistic ones?"

      Edward picked up a spoon and nervously stirred his coffee.

      "Paul, it's a long story.  My God, you don't know how long.  When I took you to meet Florence, I knew I could be lighting a fuse attached to something pretty explosive.  But I took that chance because of other matters still to be sorted out.  You see, old chap, I've known Florence for over forty years, even before she married Tom.  This is not a topic for conversation in the Moss household, but I confess I had my eye on young Florence all those years ago.  Instead she chose Tom, a very good friend of mine, and maybe the best man won, it's not for me to say.  They eventually got married, and I admit to sowing a few wild oats to get over the disappointment.  You know what wild oats are?"

      "The natural indiscretion of youth.  Happens to us all."

      "Indeed.  Anyway, I had the good fortune to meet my dear Dottie some years later and we had twenty-six good years together before she died last August.  Now I'm ever-conscious that Florence is still there, alone and struggling, and I'm here too, not so struggling but equally alone.  But then, I tell myself, if she didn't want this old fool thirty-five years ago, there's not much chance she'd change her mind now.  I haven't improved with age, and I weigh a lot more than I did.  Tom always remained slender, God knows how.  He regularly downed his pints along with the rest of us."

      "I presume it's Tom's portrait I see above the fireplace?"

      "Tom and David, yes," said Edward.  "Those two pictures have become a kind of a shrine.  Of course, Florence is entitled to grieve as long as she will, but I often feel I want to open every window in that house and let in some good fresh air.  Another thing - every time Florence sees Celia and the way that dear child walks, she's forced into remembering why, and we're back to Tom and David again.  It's not the same as forgetting.  I don't say she should forget.  But Celia being the way she is, they're reminded far too often in that household."

      "Surely my being there with my funny German accent can only make it worse.  I'm no myth, remember.  I actually was their enemy up in the sky."

      "But you're a reality, Paul, not a stagnant memory.  I'm hoping with you there they'll at last face up to reality.  I don't know - maybe I'm wrong, and maybe I've no right to interfere.  Anyway, I assure you, you'll be well taken care of - I wouldn't have taken you along if I had any doubts about that.  But I want them to think of their old enemy as a decent, likeable human being, personified by you."

      "You didn't send me there as a spy?" Paul asked with a frown.  "To find out how they feel about - you know - things in general?"

      "About a particular old friend of the family?  No, old chap, I can do my own spying, thank you.  But I still have this insatiable need to help them in ways that doesn't make them feel patronised by charity hand-outs," Edward exclaimed, thumping his fist hard on the table.   "Dammit, Paul, they need a helping hand, you've seen that.  And I'm a lonely old bugger.  We had no kids to call our own, Dottie and I.  Celia and Robin are the nearest I've got to a niece and nephew.  They could even have been my own children if Tom hadn't come along and snatched the cheese out of the mousetrap.  But I've said more than enough.  You breathe one word of this to a living soul, and I'll use you as a foundation stone for the new sewage works."

       The threat was delivered with the usual merry twinkle, but Paul knew he was bound to honour his partner's confidences.

      "I can see myself getting into a cleft stick," he said.  "With secrets from you that I mustn't reveal to Florence, and secrets from them which I'm forbidden to pass on to you."

      "Oh?  Such as?"

      Paul shook his head and smiled wisely.

      "Now, you know I am the soul of discretion, and tell no tales.  Come on, it's two o'clock, and I'm hoping to dine out tonight with at least one delightful member of the Moss family."

      Edward studied Paul with impish amusement.

      "Really?  Then tell me, if you had a choice, would you pick the elegant and worldly Florence Moss?  That noisy young scamp Robin?  Or the pensive, almost childlike Celia?"

      Paul was surprised.  "You find her childlike?  To me she seems a very mature and level-headed young woman.  A little shy, but essentially practical, easy to talk to, good sense of humour, and pretty too, despite that scar on her chin."

      "I think you've answered my question, though you'd do well not to mention the scar.  I often think that's a deeper wound than the leg.  I reckon what a woman sees in her mirror each day is far more important than what goes into her shoes.  I take it you're quite impressed by young Celia?"

      "She's a very interesting girl."

      "Touchy though," Edward warned.  "Don't misread that sense of humour.  It's a necessary mask that hides a lot of heart-ache.  Celia's constantly drawing on humour to keep depression at bay."

      "You mean, deep down she's basically unhappy?"

      "Unhappy?  Troubled?  Frustrated?  Hard to say," Edward reflected.  "Try to imagine what losing a leg would do to a young girl.  But you know how fat people often give the illusion of being jolly - it's their defence against the fear of being thought unattractive."

      "Celia's not unattractive," protested Paul, "quite the reverse."

      "Ah, but she doesn't see herself through our eyes.  I may be wrong, but I think there's a deep problem there.  That why I'm especially glad you're taking her out tonight, as long as it isn't anywhere too formal.  I'd better tell you - there was once an awful incident, not long after she came out of hospital.  Some chap she was keen on took her to a posh restaurant where they objected to girls wearing trousers.  He explained about her leg and so on, but by then the damage was done.  Spoilt their entire evening and left a very bitter memory.  We never saw him again."

      "Then tonight we'll go somewhere very quiet, provided she agrees."

      "You think that might be a problem?"

      "I don't know," Paul concluded.  "There's quite a few mysteries about the Moss family I haven't unravelled yet.  Anyway, thanks for the advice.  It's annoying that I can't phone her to see what the arrangements are."

      "Don't remind me!" sighed Edward.  "The number of times I've lain awake at night, longing to pick up the phone and give Flossie my love.  And that, m'dear boy, is to remain another closely guarded trade secret."

      At that very moment, Celia was lying in bed, unable to move.  She often felt sorry for herself but today she was livid, and it was all due to her own vanity.  Luckily Florence had been at home, and had just gone down to the phone box to give Paul a message, cancelling their evening out.

      Would he leave work at the usual time, Celia wondered, or come racing home as soon as he heard the news?  Either way, he'd surely expect to visit her in her room.  What would he see as he came through the door?

      He'd notice the uneven home-made shelves that extended the full length of her far wall, filled with masses of books, magazines, and a few precious childhood possessions.  He'd recognise the wallpaper, the same as in his room upstairs.  Like his, her wardrobe and chest of drawers were plain and functional, and a thin cord carpet lay on the floor between the bed and the door.

      Celia decided that when Paul entered, he should see her sitting up in bed, with papers strewn across her eiderdown to show she was still intent on applying for another job.  With luck he might not notice anything too personal.

      Shortly after five she heard the opening front door.  Definitely not Robin - too early and far too gentle.  But was it Edward?

      At first she could hear only her mother's voice, explaining what had happened:

      "I hope you've been told about Celia's mishap?  It's only a slight sprain, nothing too serious, but she'll be out of action for at least a day or two.  She only went down the road to get her hair done, ready for tonight.  Luckily some kind Samaritan brought her home by car, and between us we managed to carry her upstairs."

      "You should have phoned for me to come and help," Paul said kindly.

      "Thank you, Paul, but it's done now.  I was just going to take her up some milk, but I don't suppose she'll mind if you deliver it instead.  Be sure to knock first, and let her know it's you."

      Celia's heart pounded as she heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by gentle finger-tips drumming on her door.

      "Who's that?" she responded as calmly as she could.

      "Your new milkman.  Should I leave it on the doorstep or deliver it in person?"

      "Just a minute," she called, quickly checking that everything was tucked out of sight.  "Yes, you can come in now."

      The door opened slowly and Paul's broad smile seemed to fill the room.

      "Did you keep me waiting while you spread those papers around?" he asked.  "It looks as if you've had a busy afternoon."

      "I had things to do," she said with an air of feminine mystery, taking the milk and placing it carefully on a table beside her bed.

      Celia watched Paul's face as he studied her room.  Apart from papers across the bedspread, it did look remarkably tidy, even suggesting that his visit had long been anticipated.  The only object she wasn't able to hide was the wheelchair which stood discreetly behind the open door.

      "Sorry I went and spoilt our evening," she apologised in a flush of embarrassment.  "I assure you I didn't do this deliberately.  Did you plan to take me somewhere special?"

      "A friendly bird mentioned you'd prefer somewhere quiet," he said, "so I booked a very secluded table for two.  I've since phoned and asked them to put our dinner back in the oven and keep it warm for a few days."

      "It sounds perfect," she exclaimed eagerly.  "Perhaps tomorrow?"

      "You'll be back on your feet by then?" he asked, and at once regretted the use of a tactless phrase.

      "It's only a slight sprain," she said.  "Sit down if you've got a minute."

      "I have hundreds," he smiled.  "I happen to be free all evening."

      Celia indicated he should sit on the side of her bed nearest the door.  He had of course been brought up to show due respect for the opposite sex and knew how a gentleman should behave in such circumstances.  Quite properly he had left the bedroom door ajar.

      "I need that for getting to the bathroom," Celia explained as he spotted the wheelchair.  "Most nights I do a one-legged hop there and back, but Mum said it wasn't suitable behaving like a kangaroo with you around, so we brought the wheels out of retirement.  Just as well, with my best hopping leg out of action."

      "I'm told this happened while you went to get your hair done," Paul remarked.  "Was it on the way there, or coming back?"

      Celia glowered disappointment.  "You need to ask?  The result's not that impressive?"

      "Ah!" he blushed.  "I think today's the day for us both putting our foot in it."

      She laughed.  "I'm sure my hair did look more presentable before I had my fall."

      "Tell me exactly what happened before I make any more blunders."

      "Okay, since we're in no hurry to dash out, I'll include every detail.  I went down to the main shopping centre and got my hair done - as you noticed," she stressed with a frown of mock reproach.  "Then walking home I passed a shoe shop.  I only paused to look at my reflection, to see if I looked good enough for this evening.  The trouble started when I spotted a pair of shoes I liked.  I suddenly had the urge to go in and try them on, even though I knew I couldn't afford it.  The shop assistant was a complete moron who seemed to think a girl like me should get shoes made specially at the hospital instead of buying them in a shop.  Was I sure I wanted ordinary shoes, like a normal person?  That got me going, I can tell you, and out of sheer perversity I insisted on trying on several very unsuitable pairs, including some high heels that are quite out of the question.  They would have looked super if I could have managed to wear them, so in a moment of pure fantasy I made her put them on my feet, just to embarrass her and get my revenge.  I warn you - I do that sometimes when people annoy me.  Anyway, I hobbled over to the mirror to see how they looked - I know I was a fool to try, of course.  It's asking for trouble with my problem, but I did so want to look nice for you tonight and wear something more stylish than these wretched flat shoes I'm forever stuck with.  Then I turned to get a view from the back, lost my balance, grabbed onto a shelf full of shoe-boxes and it all came tumbling down on top of me.  It's lucky I wasn't in a shop full of expensive china.  Of course, I've had falls before, but this time I landed badly and twisted my good ankle.  The stupid woman in the shop claimed it was all my fault and refused to be helpful, but luckily another customer turned out to be a nurse who had once worked in Roehampton.  She came to my rescue and brought me home in her car."

      Celia paused for breath and grinned like a child.  "So, if I start growing a tail and long grey ears, I reckon I deserve them for being an ass."

      "I'm still prepared to take you out this evening," Paul offered brightly.  "We can use the wheelchair."

      "No, please," she recoiled, "I hate being seen out in that thing.  Everyone peers down at me as if I'm a sack of old vegetables.  That's another reason I was tempted to try on high heels, apart from wanting to irritate that awful woman.  I often wish I were taller.  But I should have known better.  Now all I've achieved is to ruin our evening out."

      "There's always tomorrow," Paul assured her.

      "I know," she whined, "but there was a special magic feeling about tonight, suddenly being invited at such short notice."

      "Then we'll think of something else at short notice.  There's one place I keep wanting to visit, but that's a long way off - in Bristol, where my mother used to live."  Paul gazed at the door in a reflective mood.  "Let's call it a personal pilgrimage that I'd like to make one weekend.  I haven't done anything about it yet because I don't want to go there alone.  I need to be able to share it with someone, otherwise I'll feel lonely and depressed, knowing she's not there any more.  Do you understand?"

      "Perfectly - though I can't imagine Mum allowing you to take me, not to stay overnight in a hotel, not without a chaperon."

      "She didn't think a chaperon was necessary tonight.  I did ask.  But I promise I won't take you anywhere your mother doesn't approve of."

      Then, to cover an awkward pause, he added, "Are these letters all to be posted?"

      "I don't know," Celia sighed, staring forlornly at the results of her efforts.  "Is any of these actually going to get me a job, or am I just wasting valuable stamps?"

      "Only your guardian angel can answer that.  But are you applying for the right jobs?  What would you like to do if you had a free choice?"

      "Tap dancing?" she suggested a little too seriously.  Then she shook her head and grinned like a child.  "I'm kidding!  I don't really know what I'm fit for, apart from shorthand typing, and I certainly I don't enjoy that.  I want to make better use of my brains.  They are in full working order, you know, despite what happened this afternoon."

      "You need a job you can enjoy," Paul said with enthusiasm.  "That's where I've been so lucky.  I love my work."

      "But you're a qualified architect.  I'm not."

      "Neither was I, to begin with.  So I studied.  I took exams.  It was a hard slog, but it was work I enjoyed.  Now it's like having a hobby and getting paid for doing it.  Can't we put our heads together and find you a job you can really enjoy?  What were your best subjects at school?"

      "Maths, Art, English, History, French - not German, I'm afraid, they weren't keen to teach us that.  But the bombing put an end to my school days before I could take my exams.  By the time I was mobile again we'd moved here, so instead of getting a heroine's welcome back at my old school it would have meant starting at a new place where I would have been branded a freak, and I couldn't bear that.  Besides we were desperate for money, so my further education was out of the question.  That's where boys score far better than girls.  It isn't fair, is it?"

      Paul gave a caring, compassionate smile.  "You must have been about seventeen when it happened?"

      "A gentleman should never ask a lady her age."

      "Of course not.  But I was asking the age of a young girl in school, not the lady who'll give me the answer."

      "Okay.  Then seventeen was a pretty good guess."

      "My maths is good too," he grinned.  "You did art at school.  Were you good at that?"

      "Not bad, except I couldn't think of anything original to draw.  I could only copy other people's pictures, and that wasn't what they wanted."

      Paul's eyes shone.  "Interesting!  I wonder how you'd fare in a drawing office?  That's how I started.  I found it so fascinating, it soon led to doing original work of my own.  Would you like to come along to our office one day and find out more?"

      "Yes," she said.  "I'd like that very much."

      "Good.  I can also lend you some books on modern architecture if you've got time to read them."  He glanced at her handwritten letters.  "May I read what you're saying to all these people?"

      "Of course," she agreed.  "They're none of them private, though I feel stupid applying for a typing job with a handwritten letter.  It doesn't give much idea how well I can type."

      "Don't you have a typewriter?"

      "Only a frightful thing that came out of the ark, and it's hopeless trying to use that in bed.  I decided I'd be better off with a pen."

      "Then here's a wild thought," said Paul.  "For a lark, why not write to all these firms in shorthand?  At least you'd attract more attention.  Try anything once, I say.  But think hard about the drawing office too.  You don't have to be qualified to get a job in architecture.  Have you seen where Edward works?"

      "Not for ages."

      "Well, it's all been redecorated with a modern interior as bait for new customers.  Yes, as soon as your ankle's fit for duty, we'll arrange a visit.  And it'll be followed by a special surprise."

      "Not an overnight trip to Bristol?"

      "No more tripping, please.  No, this will be an evening outing, in a southerly direction."

      After he'd gone, Celia thought more about Paul's idea.  It would make a welcome change from what she had been doing, but would she be any good?  Paul had promised to bring her some books on the subject, and as the evening wore on she quite expected him to come knocking on her door again.  But he didn't.  He clearly needed a reminder, yet she was hardly in a position to give it.

      Celia felt as helpless as a stranded whale until she remembered a voice from the past, the dragon of a therapist who had coaxed her into taking those first painful steps thirteen years ago.  "Come on, my duck, make an effort.  Don't give up before you start, I know you can do it.  I guarantee you will by this time tomorrow, and you'll feel so chuffed.  Come on, Celia, walk.  Come on, sweetheart..."

      She wondered how her ankle would feel if she stood on it.  Like many challenges in life, there was one way of finding out.

      Celia reached down beside the bed and retrieved her prosthetic leg from its hiding place.  It was always kept beneath her bed, hidden from the view of anyone standing in the doorway.  Alongside it lay the old crutches, seldom used but now essential for the next few days.  She got herself ready, and carefully tried to stand up.  The ankle still felt tender but it was no longer painful.

      She made her way to the wardrobe, took out a full-length dressing-gown and slipped it on.  Then using her crutches for extra support she progressed slowly out onto the landing and very carefully began descending the stairs.

      She took her time, coming down so quietly that Paul didn't hear a sound until she was standing in the centre of the room.  He was sitting in the armchair with a folded newspaper on his knee, a draughtsman's pencil in his hand, and a faraway look on his face as he scoured his brain for English synonyms.

      Celia warmed to him at once.  It was tough enough doing crosswords, without having to attempt it in a foreign language.

      "Good evening, Mr. Muller," she said softly.  "Where is everyone?"

      Paul leapt at once to his feet and guided her carefully into the armchair.

      "Your mother's gone down the road to post some of your letters," he explained, "and Robin's up in his room.  How are you feeling?"

      "Sick of being left on my own.  I was hoping someone would come and visit me again, but nobody did."

      "I didn't like to intrude," he said.  "Your mother might not have approved.  But I'm glad you're here - perhaps you can help.  I'm doing tonight's crossword but my knowledge of English isn't what it should be."

      He pulled up a dining chair to sit beside her.

      "So which clues are you trying to solve?" she asked, excited by his nearness and the prospect of being needed.

      "You can see how far I've got," he said.  "This one here, for instance.  'If the burglar is disturbed?'  It doesn't make sense to me.  Five letters, and the second one is H."

      "If the?" she murmured, and leaned closer.  "Thief!  It says 'If the', which is the word 'Thief' rearranged.  Look for clues like 'disturbed', or 'upset'.  It usually means the letters are jumbled up."

      "I see you're an expert at crosswords."

      "I did hundreds in hospital.  I'm out of practice now, but it's a good way to learn new words if you've got someone to help you."

      "I like the way you explain things," he said.  "Perhaps you should apply for a job as a teacher?"

      "There aren't many vacancies for teachers of crossword puzzles.  No, I've either got to find another typing job, or pursue your idea of the drawing office.  I'd love to come and see where you work, even if I end up doing unpaid jobs like making the tea."

      "Ah, you make very good tea.   Edward said before I came here that I would find good food, a clean house, and the best cups of tea in London."

      "He exaggerates, of course, but it's sweet of him."  She looked at Paul intently.  "Tell me what else he says about us."

      "I never betray secrets.  But I will tell you it is always complimentary."

      "There's a reason I ask," she confided, nestling closer.  "Between you and me, Mr. Muller, we've known our mutual friend for years and years, and we know he has a very warm spot in his heart for Mother.  In fact, Robin and I keep wondering how long it'll be before he wakes up and does something about it.  Keep that strictly to yourself though, won't you."

      "I promise.  And please, if you keep calling me Mr. Muller, I shall feel like your teacher in school.  Now, do I say IN school, or AT school?"

      "I'm not sure," she replied.  "AT, I think."

      "You don't know?  Then is it any wonder I'm confused?  This house is number twelve, right?  You live AT number twelve, IN Harrow Street, AT the corner of the Broadway, IN South London.  People watch football AT Wembley, IN the afternoon AT three o'clock IN the rain.  You see why it's hard for anyone to learn English?"

      "Your English is fifty times better than my French.  I'd hate to find myself stranded abroad, unable to communicate except in school French."

      "That's how I felt at first.  But my English mother loved speaking to me in her own language when I was young.  And I have been living in England now for quite a few years."

      "Do you intend going back home to Germany one day?"

      "It wouldn't be home any more," he said.  "I probably wouldn't even recognise the street where I once lived, with all the war damage and the rebuilding that's gone on."

      "What about your family?"

      "They all died in the war," he said simply.  "My grandparents, parents and my sister too.  I have an English aunt who used to write when I was little, but I haven't heard from her for ages, not since the war.  I've no idea where she is now."

      "I suppose you were too young to have fought in the war?"

      Celia didn't really believe this, but her curiosity needed to be satisfied and it seemed a good opportunity to raise the subject while they were alone.

      "I was in the German air force for a while," he revealed, "but I spent most of the war in a P.O.W. camp in this country."

      "And you've not been back to Germany since?"

      "Not recently.  I flew to Frankfurt on business two years ago, but felt no homesickness."

      "I'd love to fly in an aeroplane," she said excitedly.  "My brother David was in the RAF during the war.  That's him, up there above the fireplace.  He was a wonderful pilot.  He'd probably be an airline pilot now if he hadn't been home on leave the night the bomb fell.  I remember him telling me about his flights over Germany - oh, I'm sorry, Paul."

      "Well," he conceded with an understanding smile, "it was long time ago."

      The front door opened and Florence came in, halting abruptly as she saw Celia in her dressing-gown sitting so closely to Paul.

      "Goodness, what's all this?" she exclaimed.  "Should you be down here?"

      She seemed less concerned about Celia's mobility than the impropriety of her being alone in a man's presence and not fully dressed.

      "Well, I am," she replied crisply.  "And I got here on my own.  I wouldn't have had to bother if you'd reminded Paul he promised to lend me some books on architecture, but he was too much of a gentleman to come and visit me upstairs without an invitation, so I decided to come and visit him instead."

      "Well, don't catch cold, will you, dressed like that."

      "In the middle of summer?  Really, Florence!"

      "You're forgetting you've been tucked up in a warm bed all day."

      "On the contrary, I remember every dreary minute of it.  And would you prefer I'd come down in a top hat and siren suit?" she argued.  "If Paul is living in this house, he's going to see us as we are, just as you or Robin would.  I bet before the week's out he'll catch a glimpse of you in your nightie.  Relax, Florence!  I'm merely trying to make him feel at home.  At your suggestion."

      "Well, don't put too much of a strain on that ankle," she warned.

      "Whatever you say, Florence.  So, if I go back to bed now, will someone please bring me up some biscuits and a glass of milk, and possibly a book on architecture?"

      "Why this sudden interest in architecture?" Florence asked.

      "Aren't you interested in what Uncle Edward does for a living?"

      "Of course, dear.  I'm interested in what Robin does too, but I have better things to do than read his accountancy books."

      "Then if you prefer, in future I'll stick to Enid Blyton, but don't leave me to stagnate up there without some form of intellectual diversion.  It's bloody boring.  I'll return to my bed now, having proved I can move about.  And I'll do it, please, without anyone's assistance."

      Celia rose to her feet and Paul handed her the crutches.  Slowly she made her way to the stairs while the others stood and watched.

      "I'm not doing a high wire act in a circus," she snapped.

      "I know, dear," said Florence.  "I'm just concerned about that ankle."

      "Which one?" came the stinging retort.

      Florence went through to the kitchen, and she missed the grinning wink that her daughter privately shared with Paul.

      As she prepared for bed, Celia could heard their guest moving about in his room above, hopefully finding some books on draughtsmanship.  She then heard two sets of footsteps, Paul coming down and her mother coming up, presumably with milk and biscuits.  They both halted on the landing right outside her door.

      "These are the books she was talking about," Paul said quietly.  "I suggested yesterday she might like to come to our office and see the kind of work we do.  It could mean a whole new opening for her.  She's young and she's bright, and tells me she enjoyed art at school.  There are countless people out there doing boring jobs just for the money, so I suggested she'd lose nothing by reading about the work Edward and I find so interesting.  I hope you don't mind."

      "Not at all, Mr. Muller.  I'm only worried about her sprained ankle.  If she's called for an interview and can't attend because she tried using it too soon..."

      "Then I'll gladly transport her there and back myself.  She'll be fine in a few days, I'm sure.  And I really would like to take her out, to make up for tonight's cancelled dinner.  May I deliver the milk and biscuits?"

      This was followed by an assertive knock on her door.

      "It's your mobile librarian.  One glass of milk, three biscuits and a wealth of information about the drawing office," he announced, as he entered to hand her the various items.

      As Celia placed the milk on her far bedside table, she accidentally knocked her elbow on the bedstead and spilled a quantity on the floor.  Paul immediately came running round to mop up the spillage.

      "No," she called sharply.  "Don't see to it, it's nothing."

      Her voice of panic stopped him at the foot of her bed.

      "Please," she begged him earnestly.  "I'd rather do it myself."

      Concerned about her fears, Paul retreated towards the door.

      "Would you like me to come back later?"

      Celia sat and considered this for a moment.  Yes, she needed a moment to herself, but she had also gone to great lengths in getting him to visit her room.

      "Sit on the bed," she decided.  "I'll just see what the damage is."

      She leaned over and inspected the floor while Paul averted his gaze.

      "No real harm done," she reported.  "Sorry about that, but I keep private things down there.  Things I need in the night, and I don't like people seeing them."

      "Of course not," he said.  "Perfectly natural.  I should have thought before I moved.  It was silly of me."

      "No it wasn't.  It's silly of me to be such a fuss-pot.  I'm either too prudish or too sensitive, I don't know.  But some of the things I have to use are a bit unsightly."

      "Believe me," he smiled, "I see nothing unsightly from where I'm standing.  But you're right - we're all entitled to privacy.  I'd feel the same if it were me, though you shouldn't underestimate the willingness of others to share your problems.  And as you've still got at least three quarters of a glass of milk there, it can't be that big a flood, so there's no need for me to rush downstairs for a hammer and nails to start building Noah's ark."

      Celia giggled freely at his humour.  Paul took life quite seriously, and was in no way flippant about her disability, yet he could so easily lighten an embarrassing situation with a well-chosen remark.

      Later that night she lay in bed trying to read, but her mind could focus only on the man in the room above, a man who would soon be taking her to visit his place of work.  And perhaps afterwards, if he'd meant what he said, they'd be spending a quiet evening together, somewhere entirely on their own.  With this happy thought, she smiled contentedly, said a little prayer, and turned off the light.

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