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A long silence fell between them. Their eyes met as though they were watching a film from the past, their intimacy, anger and verbal battles relived.

'I was precipitate in abandoning Irene's case,' he said abruptly, surprising himself. 'But I felt defeated.'

Emma heard his words and longed to ask him to reconsider the situation, but what she said impulsively in no way matched her thoughts. 'You had too many preconceived ideas, Adam.'

He didn't hesitate. 'Possibly, when it came to your position.'

'I accept the situation as it is,' she said briskly.

'The dangerous word is
accept
,' he exclaimed, holding her gaze, the tension rising as their sexual awareness mounted.

Emma drew on dissent, fighting to keep control of her emotions.

'I am not blind to the facts, or weak in accepting them,' she said hotly. 'Your attitude has always seemed to be that I aid and abet Irene as though her case were purely psychological.'

He looked suddenly grim.

'Then we come back to first principles, which supports my handing over to Edmund.'

Anger was rising from passion, their mutual love concealed by the veneer of dissension, leaving them vulnerable and at the mercy of their emotions which threatened to defeat them.

'No doctor can give of his best if sympathy is lacking.' Her voice was firm.

There was an electric silence.

'That is quite unjust,' he protested. 'And you know it,' he added tempestuously.

Emma dared not argue further. Her heart was racing, every nerve in her body tingling. His presence robbed her of calm objectivity. She wanted to fight because she loved him, ached for his kiss, and cursed herself for being weak enough to agree to having coffee with him.

In turn Adam shared her desires, sitting there fuming at his impotence, and suddenly, his mood changing, his voice softening, he said startlingly, 'Let's call another truce, Emma. We've fought enough over Irene.'

He held her gaze as he spoke and she lowered hers, afraid lest he might see what was written there.

'Gladly,' she murmured, surprised by her own acquiescence, but overpowered by emotion.

'I'd like to think you'd keep in touch with Ruth,' he said quietly. 'I don't like finality, even when it's harmonious.'

She caught at her breath. When would she see him again? If only she could have taken his case; if only. . . The two words stung her, representing the pattern of their association. He wanted a truce so that he would be spared the irritation of annoyance, she thought with a degree of desperation as she watched him pay the bill, his finely shaped hands moving to fascinate her and remind her of his arms enfolding her.

'Are you off today?' she asked in the momentary silence as they got to their feet.

'Yes,' he said, 'but I've a patient to see later on. You are going home?'

How trite, he thought, it all sounded.
Home.
He saw it in Emma's case like a prison built around her which no one could storm.

'Thank you for the coffee,' she said as they eventually stood together in the High Street.

He looked down at her, a physical awareness of her robbing him of the power to say more than, almost abruptly, 'Goodbye, Emma.'

She stood there watching him stride away, just as she had watched him leave the house a week before, only now she faced the aching longing to run after him and tell him that she loved him and that she didn't know how she would carry on without him; that she wasn't the strong-minded stoical person he thought her, but a lonely, despairing woman weighed down by responsibility and aware of the barrenness of her own life.

And in turn Adam was thinking of the case she would have taken but for Irene, and wondering how he could possibly persuade her to take one in the future. Now they lacked any point of contact, and a truce did not mean that he could call at will to York Road. He was like a man wanting to fight, but whose hands were tied behind him.

Irene said suddenly the following month, 'I must say I feel better since Adam hasn't been calling. It was all right at first. . . Do you miss him?'

It had been evident to Emma that Irene's calm since Adam's withdrawal from the case emphasised the fact that as long as she, Emma, was there, living an abnormal isolated life, Irene's state of mind was greatly improved. And Emma faced the fact with dismay. It highlighted everything Adam had diagnosed and placed her in a position where she was forced to look at her own life and weigh up its heavy responsibilities. She recalled her mood as she parted from Adam after having coffee with him. It was with a sense of shock that she remembered her own confession of being a lonely, despairing woman, aware of the barrenness of her own life. A feeling almost of guilt stole over her. She had never begrudged anything done for Irene, or any sacrifices made. She was a sacred trust—a legacy from their parents. But she knew suddenly, and not without a certain irony, that she must assert herself and claim some degree of freedom, provided Irene was cared for. Her longing for Adam brought her to life, despite its pain. She could not face days, weeks, months of inactivity, except of a domestic nature, without a break, and while she told herself firmly that she in no way accepted Adam's assessment of Irene's case, she was prepared to admit he had a point when it came to herself and her mode of living. Proceed as she was now doing and she would lose all individuality and motivation. She saw Irene's observation as just the right opening for what she wanted to say.

Ignoring the question about missing him, Emma said very firmly. 'That being so, Irene, it is time I did a little work again.'

Irene gave a little distressed cry.

'You
mean you are going
to
work for
him
.' Irene's heart thumped. Hadn't she always feared that there was an attraction between Adam and Emma which would strike at the heart of her own life?

Emma almost snapped, 'No. That case will be taken.' She spoke hurriedly, as though courage would desert her unless she plunged straight into battle.

Irene whimpered, 'I knew it was too good to last. . . Oh! If you only realised how I hate being like this; how I long to be normal. You can go out, mix with people,
live. .
.' Her voice rose.

Emma took her stand and divorced herself from the appeal.

'I've stayed here with you for a long time,' Emma reminded her. 'Taking a case in a week or two. . .' She paused and then cried, 'It was my
career.'

Irene argued to herself that the best way to keep Emma with her was to let her go gracefully on this occasion. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

She said with telling humility, 'I'm sorry, Emma. Of course you must do as you say. Marion will come, and without Adam to make me feel. . .oh, I don't know. . .' Her voice trailed away, she felt slightly sick as she spoke, and panicked as she almost pleaded with Emma not to leave her. Of course it was all Adam's fault! He had stimulated the idea of Emma's working again, almost as though he resented Emma caring for her.

Emma was immediately defensive. 'Adam's one objective was to get you better.'

Irene looked angry.

'And his tactics were like telling a blind man that he could see if he wanted,' she burst forth. 'He changed,' she added in a resentful voice. 'It will be good to have Dr Bryant back. When it came to it, he understood me as Adam never did.'

'But you've liked Adam; enjoyed his visits——' She stopped. She was defending him as though it were as natural as breathing, although she had been on Irene's side all the way. Love, she thought disgustedly, robbed one even of facing up to the truth. Adam had spoken of a truce as though it solved all the problems. Perhaps, she reflected wretchedly, that was all he cared about since it probably acted as a salve to his conscience when it came to discarding Irene so abruptly. He had made no mention of another meeting and, she thought dismally, she was unlikely to see him again in the foreseeable future. The fact sent a wave of misery over her and she dragged her thoughts back to the present and the possibility of taking a case.

Irene looked sad.

'I feel deserted when it really comes to it. So much for his idea of friendship,' she said a trifle haughtily. She watched Emma apprehensively. 'Are you thinking of going to work immediately?' Her expression was woebegone.

Emma stuck to facts.

'I'll ring the agency next week.'

'So soon?'

'Yes. After I've spoken to Marion.'

Irene felt she had suddenly been abandoned into a vast unfriendly world that was foreign to her. When it came to it she knew she had deluded herself that Emma would not leave her, and a sudden fierce anger towards Adam built up within her because she felt that he was indirectly responsible for this development.

'They may not have a case.'

Emma could not shut her ears to the hope implicit in the suggestion.

'But they will know they can call on me,' Emma said firmly.

'You won't go out of Windsor—will you?'

'That I couldn't possibly say.' Emma was gentle, but firm. 'I have a car,' she added without thinking, the emphasis being the wrong thing.

'Cars!'
Irene spoke vehemently. 'I hate even the sound of them; and when I'm listening for you to come home my head bursts and my heart races. Everything comes back. . . Oh, Emma! I'm afraid. . .you don't know how afraid I am.'

The words drummed in Emma's ears, undermining her resolution, weakening her, but she stuck to her resolve and said encouragingly, 'You're not afraid with Marion. Time for lunch,' she added briskly and went into the dining-room, knowing that she could not withstand any more of Irene's opposition and pleading.

Marion was, as always, free to stand in at any time, and when Emma got through to the agency a little thrill of excitement and pleasure went over her at their reaction on hearing she was available. There was a patient with pernicious anaemia. The patient, Mrs Grace Hayes, didn't need bed nursing, but looking after while her usual carer was away and her husband was in America for three weeks. There was a resident housekeeper and a daily. By a strange coincidence the agency had intended contacting her to offer her the case in the hope that she might now be free. It was at Ascot, near Coronation Road. She would be needed the following Sunday.

Emma stood by the telephone in her bedroom for a few seconds after having made the call and arrangements, bracing herself to face Irene downstairs.

Irene sat waiting, tense and enquiring, as Emma came into the room. Her eyes were apprehensive as she said quickly, 'Had they anything for you?'

Emma told her.

'Sunday!' Irene added hastily, 'It's so soon.'

Emma wondered what Adam would say, and a little thrill of defiant pleasure shot through her. Would he get to hear of it? Yet why should he? She wanted to telephone him, prove to him how wrong his assumptions were. She was conscious of Irene's anxious gaze upon her and, concentrating, said, 'Ascot is only eight miles away.' She didn't want to talk of the time factor.

'Ascot,' Irene said dully. 'I remember it, and the fir trees crackling in the spring.' She dropped her voice. 'Now there's no spring. Nothing.'

Emma looked at her and fought the sadness that overwhelmed her. There seemed no more words to say and she stiffened her resolve, telling herself that she mustn't weaken; that her returning to work periodically might have a beneficial effect on Irene after all.

It was on the Friday of that week, between surgeries, that Adam sat at his desk and thought of Emma. What kind of a truce was it, since there was no contact between them and he couldn't see her without also seeing Irene, and calling at the house was his only hope of contact? He loved her deeply, passionately, but she might as well, he argued, be shut up in a nunnery as at York Road. He felt certain that she wouldn't contact him and probably, despite their truce, would be thankful not to have his visits further to confound her. One word about Irene and there was dissension. He had no hope of breaking that immutable bond.

His secretary's voice on the intercom interrupted his reverie. 'Dr Wellings is here and would like to see you.'

Adam responded immediately, 'Oh, good! Send him in.'

Hugh Wellings and his partner, James Moncton, had a reciprocal arrangement whereby they stood in for each other professionally and worked together.

Dr Hugh Wellings came into the room a few seconds later—a tall, slim, fair-haired man in his early thirties, happily married with a son of three and a daughter of a year. He exuded cheerfulness as he smiled broadly and said, 'I thought I'd just look in before going off to Rome tomorrow—there's a patient of mine I'd like you to visit specially. James is overloaded.'

Adam came out of his reverie and nodded agreeably. He liked Hugh who, together with his partner, made a good team with Edmund, Judy and himself.

Hugh Wellings handed over the necessary particulars. 'She's a Mrs Grace Hayes who lives in Ascot. If you could go on Tuesday. . . As; pernicious anaemia, needing the maintenance dose of vitamin B12.'

Adam's well-trained mind had an instant picture of a patient who was likely to be in the fifty to seventy age group, prematurely greying, slightly jaundiced, with a general pallor due to the anaemia.

'I'll make a point of it,' he promised.

'You'll find her a pleasant patient, brave, has difficulty in walking. . . When are
you
going on holiday?' he added disjointedly, studying Adam intensely. He felt that Adam looked distracted as he echoed the word 'holiday' as though it were a foreign language.

Adam thought instantly of Emma. A holiday—a honeymoon—with Emma. . .

'Hadn't thought of it,' he admitted. And he envied Hugh as he spoke. Happiness viewed from afar could be cruel.

Why, Hugh Wellings asked himself, was a man like Adam apparently on his own? People talked about his charm and how popular he was with women, but that was as far as it got, and with Judy engaged to Roy that hope vanished. He changed the subject and said with genuine interest, 'How, by way, is Miss Sinclair— your agoraphobia case—and her sister?'