They were now approaching the centre of the city and, following the directions she gave him, he turned off Princes Street at the Scott monument, drove for some distance along Craig Terrace, then, after crossing a wide square, arrived at a grey stone building marked by a well-polished brass plate bearing the name of the Society. It had the look of an old dwelling house, Victorian in character, which, he surmised, had been donated by some deceased benefactor, possibly the pious widow of a city merchant. In the windows several posters were displayed showing representations of what appeared to be, at this distance, distressing groups of emaciated native children.
“Miss Arbuthnot will be expecting me,” she told him as she stepped briskly from the car. “I won’t be more than a few minutes.”
She was as good as her word. There was just time to smoke a Sobranie cigarette—he had been careful to bring a plentiful supply of his special brand from Switzerland—before she reappeared. The dashboard clock, which was actually going, showed only half-past three. But glancing at it she apologised, rather breathlessly.
“Och, I have kept you waiting.”
“Not a bit of it. Was everything all right?”
“Oh, fine, thank you.”
“Now then, Kathy,” he said, decisively engaging gear, “you’ve done your good deed for the day and you’re in my hands for the rest of the afternoon. Let’s forget Central Africa for a bit and think a little about ourselves. First of all we’ll park the car, then we’ll go shopping together.”
He found a garage nearby and presently, taking her arm, he guided her back to Princes Street. The sun was shining as they walked along. In the gardens opposite roses were still blooming and a cool breeze fluttered the leaves of the plane trees. Above, the battlements of the Castle were as though cut clean by a knife against a wide swathe of luminous sky. He still held her arm protectively, steering her along the crowded pavement.
“Isn’t Princes Street nice?” she remarked. “They say it’s the bonniest street in Europe.”
“It is a bonnie street, Kathy,” he answered gaily, “and full of bonnie shops—all with lovely things in them.”
“Ay,” she nodded soberly, “and all dreadful expensive.”
He burst out laughing. A wonderful mood was descending upon him. The scene, the sun, the brisk invigorating air, all exhilarated him.
“Kathy, Kathy,” he exclaimed, pressing her elbow. “You’ll be the death of me. When you know me better you’ll realise that the one thing I really enjoy is spending money.”
She had to smile in sympathy, though a little doubtfully.
“Well,” she said practically, “so long as you don’t waste it.”
“My dear, you’re the very one who ought to know that what’s spent on others is never wasted.”
“Oh, you’re so right,” she agreed, her expression clearing. “That was the most splendid and generous thing you did, giving the bell to Mr Fotheringay.”
“Yes, the old boy’s got his bell. But we mustn’t forget poor Mrs F., who got nothing—and I think she’s had plenty of that all her life. So we must find something pretty for her. But first of all,” he had stopped opposite Ferguson’s, the confectioners, “I want to send some Edinburgh rock to two little friends of mine in Switzerland.”
He went in with her and ordered a large box of the famous sweet to be mailed to the children of the pier-master in Schwansee. Next he sought her advice and, in a neighbouring shop, purchased a fine capacious black lizard-skin handbag for the minister’s wife.
“It’s a beauty.” Kathy stroked the shining leather admiringly. “And I know it’s the very thing she’s wanting.”
“Then you’ll have the pleasure of giving it to her.”
Emerging, he conveyed her further along the street towards an establishment which, as he drove in, he had observed to be of special merit.
“Now,” he announced in great good humour and with a rather mischievous air, “I’m going in here to do some real shopping.”
He took a step forward, but as he prepared to lead the way in she stopped him hurriedly.
“Don’t you see—this isn’t a man’s shop.”
“No,” he replied, looking down at her seriously. “It isn’t. But I’m going in—to buy you a new coat—and a few other things which I’m sure you need. Now, not a word. I’m an old family friend, you must learn to accept me as . . . well, someone like Uncle Willie. Or better still, as an older brother. And as such, I simply can’t have you sending all your money to Angola and doing without absolute necessities—a pretty girl like you.”
A warm colour had risen to her brow. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes fell.
“I never bother what I have on—not much, anyway.” Then, to his relief, she looked at him again and, unable to resist, after a faint tremor of her lips, she smiled. “I mustn’t pretend. I suppose I like to be as nice as the rest.”
“And you shall be, only nicer.”
They went into the shop which, as he had surmised, was of the first order. Aided by a discreet, mature saleswoman who rustled towards them, and ignoring all Kathy’s whispered protests, he selected a coat of fine Shetland material, warm yet light, new gloves and shoes, a hand-blocked silk scarf, and finally a restrained yet tasteful dark green lovat suit. He wished to do more, infinitely more: nothing would have given him greater joy than to have swathed her in those rich furs past which, with a speculative glance, the saleswoman had tentatively led him. But he dared not—not yet. While Kathy retired to the fitting room upstairs he took an armchair in the elegant red-carpeted salon, stretched out his legs, and lit a cigarette, perfectly at home. Presently she came down, and, with lowered gaze, stood before him. He could not believe his eyes, so startling was the change. She looked ravishing.
“Madame is rather different in the lovat, sir.” The saleswoman, with an air of achievement, was studying him covertly.
Under that experienced gaze he restrained himself.
“A great success,” he said coolly. “It seems to fit.”
“Naturally, sir. The young lady is a perfect thirty-four.”
He insisted that she wear the suit and the new coat: the other articles, elegantly wrapped, were easily portable, the old discarded coat could be sent to Markinch with her Harris skirt. When the bill was presented, though he was careful not to expose the total, she kept murmuring remorsefully in his ear, but as she left the shop in her new possessions he did not fail to notice the sparkle of pleasure in her eyes. He had done well, he reflected with an inward thrill, and this was only the beginning.
She remained silent as they walked back together along the street, where the low sun behind a bank of clouds cast a golden gleam, then looking straight ahead she said:
“I think you are the kindest person, Mr Moray. I only hope you have not ruined yourself.”
He shook his head.
“I told you I had something to repay. But it is you who are repaying me.”
She half turned, looking at him steadily.
“That’s just about the nicest thing that’s ever been said to me.”
“Then you will do a nice thing for me? Mr Moray is so stiff, won’t you please call me David?”
“Oh, I will,” she said shyly.
Before the silence became awkward he exclaimed lightly:
“Good gracious! Past five o’clock. Time for tea. I’ve been running the show so far, but now I’m going to let you take over. Which place do you recommend?”