“How amusing,” she said. “But come over here now,
dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa and I’ll give you a
nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit12 before you go to bed.”
“You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean
you to do anything like that.”He stood by the piano, watching
her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He
noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving hands
and red fingernails.
“I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw
them,” Billy said. “I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”
There is nothing more tantalizing13 than a thing like
this that lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory.
He hated to give up.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a minute.
Mulholland . . . Christopher Mulholland . . . wasn’t that
the name of the Eton14 schoolboy who was on a walking tour
through the West Country, and then all of a sudden . . .”
“Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
“Yes, please. And then all of a sudden . . .”
“Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my dear, that can’t
possibly be right, because my Mr.Mulholland was certainly
not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a
Cambridge15 undergraduate. Come over here now and sit
next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire.
Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.” She patted the empty
place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at
Billy and waiting for him to come over