Niven wondered if Gwendolen Kelling had enjoyed her brief sojourn in the Savoy at his expense. He had paid for a fancy suite for her, with a view of the Thames and half of London, and had distributed enough largesse amongst the staff to ensure that she would be well cared for. He presumed that Yorkshire librarians didn’t often stay in costly suites in the Savoy. He imagined her feeling indebted to him. He had never done a woman so many favours as he had Gwendolen Kelling in the last few days.
At first he had taken her for the timid, nervous sort, misled perhaps by the “Ladies Only” accommodation, the attack in Regent Street, the mousy clothes—yet last night he had witnessed her in action under fire, rising to meet the moment. She had steel. He couldn’t but admire it.
He had picked some wildflowers earlier, from the banks of the canal, thinking they sent a better message than the kind of hothouse blooms that his sisters were in continual receipt of. Niven was not in the habit of sending flowers, in fact he could not, offhand, recall ever having given flowers to a woman. Once perhaps, a long time ago, to his mother when he was still a boy. She had been indifferent to them, he seemed to remember. Nellie had brought her children up without sentiment. She said it was a gift.
* * *
—
“Yes? Can I help you?” Mrs. Bodley said, meaning the opposite. Niven had previously made her acquaintance when he had returned Gwendolen’s handbag. She seemed primed for hostilities then; now she seemed ready to repel all invaders. Men were clearly not welcome at the Warrender.
Niven doffed his hat. “I’m looking for Miss Kelling.”
“I’m afraid Miss Kelling went out some half an hour ago.”
Of course she was out, Niven realized. Why would she be inside, in this stuffy place, in such pleasant weather? She had probably gone for a walk in one of the parks. Perhaps she had gone for a walk with the man who had deserted her in the club last night.
“I have no idea where she has gone, it is not my business,” Mrs. Bodley said. “Miss Kelling is continually flitting in and out. Are those flowers for her?” she asked, grimacing at the sight of the straggly bunch in his hand. The flowers had seemed like a romantic gesture when he picked them, but now they just looked like half-dead weeds. “Do you wish me to put them in a vase?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Whom shall I tell her called for her?”
“No one,” Niven said.
“You persist in your anonymity, I see. You know you are not even her first gentleman caller today.”
“Oh, really?” Niven said, feigning indifference. The deserter, presumably.
“Very popular young lady, Miss Kelling,” Mrs. Bodley said.
She was clearly trying to needle him and she succeeded. “Forget I was here,” Niven said, turning on his heel and running back down the steps. Sanctimonious old cow, he thought, flinging the humiliating flowers into the dank and mossy basement well of a neighbouring house. What on earth had he been thinking when he decided to come courting Gwendolen Kelling? Thank God she had not been in. He was saved from his own lunacy.
* * *
—
On his way back through town he thought he may as well stop off at the Savoy to check that everything had been taken care of. Perhaps, he thought, Gwendolen Kelling was still inside, lingering in the luxury of the suite he had paid for. He could invite her for a late luncheon in the Grill. （The lunacy had returned, apparently.） Perhaps they would talk about the war. More and more, as the conflict faded into the world’s history books, Niven found himself not wanting to forget. Gwendolen Kelling seemed like someone who might understand the need to remember.
When the doorman at the entrance to the hotel spotted Niven advancing along Savoy Court towards him, he straightened to attention, saluted and deferentially murmured, “Mr. Coker,” as was the way of doormen.
A man had been indulging in idle Sunday chatter with the doorman, but whipped his head round when he heard the Coker name. He was the brazen sort—scrawny, wearing a cheap suit and with a foreign look about him. Niven had known scrappers like that in the Army. He was wearing two-tone sports shoes as though he were on the golf course, although he was more caddy than player. Niven himself wore handmade shoes—calf-leather brogues—and detested golf. Keeper, always a good judge of character, let out a quiet growl. The man tipped his hat at Niven and sauntered off into the Strand. Something about him made Niven’s own hackles rise.
Yes, everything had been perfectly all right with Miss Kelling’s bill, the member of staff on duty at the reception desk said when Niven enquired. In fact, Miss Kelling had insisted on paying it herself when she checked out. So, she was too proud to accept charity? If Niven had known she was going to reject his offer, he would have booked her into a more affordable room. More fool her. He felt cold towards her, where moments ago he had been ready to unburden his soul. Again, a lucky escape, the lunacy vanquished.