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Emma held her breath and looked at Irene, who said, 'That would be lovely,' as her gaze met his and she smiled confidently.

Philip Morgan promised, 'My wife will telephone.'

He conveyed the impression that they too would get together.

As they reached the front door, Timothy Wain said, 'We'll call in and make sure the child hasn't had any reaction.' He shuddered. 'It was a miracle that I didn't touch her.'

Emma's thoughts were racing. She was like someone waiting for a thunderstorm to restart as she looked at Irene who said easily, 'Hadn't
you
better go too, Emma? I don't think Mrs Loxley knew what she was doing. She was so shattered.'

It was an instinct to ask Irene if she would be all right, but she refrained and Irene saw them off, her gaze upon Timothy Wain as she said, looking at the two cars, 'Amazing the noise a crash can make—yet do so little damage.'

'True; we've been very lucky all round.'

The three of them walked the few paces to the Loxley house. Emma took one look at the child and was satisfied that there was no delayed shock. She was playing happily with a doll while her mother looked on, calmer, and with colour back in her cheeks. There was no animosity on her part towards the two men. She dared not think how easily Judy could have been killed and realised the driving skill which had averted a tragedy.

Emma said a few appropriate words, thankful everything was restored to normal.
Normal
! The word echoed and the thought of Irene stabbed. The situation seemed unreal, and as she parted from Mrs Loxley and watched the two lightly damaged cars drive away, she walked to the front door which Irene immediately opened.

'Is everything all right?'

'Fine.' Emma didn't know what to say. Looking at Irene was like looking at a stranger. It was difficult to assess the situation, fearful lest she should awaken, as from a dream, and find Irene had reverted to her previous abnormal state.

But Irene said in a rush, as they sat down in the sitting-room, 'The crash was like an injection that changed my whole outlook.' Her voice rose, 'I thought you were in the accident and I just had to get to you. I suddenly found myself
there.''
She looked bewildered. 'I feel so
different.
I lived a lifetime in those seconds when I feared you might have been killed.' Her voice dropped, 'Oh,
Emma!
What you must have been through—the misery I've caused and the burden I've been!'

Emma listened, rejoicing, yet apprehensive. She was uncertain just how to behave; what degree of normality had been established, and if the transformation had merely been triggered by shock which would wear off and restore the old pattern. She thought of their conversation about Adam earlier that afternoon. It didn't seem possible that it had even taken place in the same year. The name 'Adam' stabbed. He had been proved right.
Irene had gone out of the house
and was sitting there, talking normally. Even so, she dared not mention his name for fear it might awaken memories best forgotten. Her yearning for him seemed like an illness as she recalled their last meeting and his damning words that she didn't want to see him again. Surely there could not be such misunderstanding between two people! And if Irene maintained this attitude, how right he had been.
If Irene maintained this attitude.
It was like treading on eggshells as she watched every shade of expression on Irene's face. Now that expression was full of remorse, apology, and Emma began, 'You've been '

Irene burst out, 'I've been obsessed with my own original ailment; and by my feelings of self-pity, fear and lack of will-power. I got used to the attention and being a prisoner with what seemed a watertight excuse. All that stress worked me up to a point of ' She broke off, then added forcefully, 'I didn't think what I was doing to you.'

There was a moment of tense silence. Then, as though reading Emma's thoughts, Irene said directly, 'Adam was right. I suppose subconsciously I knew it, and that's why I wanted him out of the picture.' Her voice dropped. 'I was wicked. I didn't want you to work and leave me.' She sighed and drew her hand across her forehead.

Emma was on edge. What was the right thing to say?

And as if sensing that fear, Irene reassured her. 'It's like getting back into my old body into the real world again—as though I've had an anaesthetic and awakened on a different plane.' She looked around her wonderingly. 'Even this house feels different; and it's light—not dark as I used to like it.' Her voice softened. 'I can realise how Daddy and Mummy would hate me to be as I have been. . . It's strange, but I've come home and they seem to be
here,
where before, I could never reach them. They'd gone and I felt deserted.' She looked pensive. 'You see, I only concentrated upon myself. I didn't fight when I felt depressed and tense—just pandered to every mood, and you were my life.' She shivered and for a moment a shadow crossed her face. Then she added, half afraid, 'I shan't wake up and find it's only a dream—shall I?' With that, she got up purposefully from her chair. 'Don't come with me,' she said as she went out into the hall and opened the front door, standing there, looking around, feeling the air unfamiliarly on her face as she went out into the street. A woman and child passed her and she smiled at them, and paused for a second taking in her surroundings, the houses—seen only through windows for so long. Cars went by, and she found herself mesmerised by them.

When she returned to Emma, the front door shut, the house still, she said in a trance-like voice, 'I shall go out in the car with you, drive again. . . I liked Timothy Wain,' she said irrelevantly. 'It was good of him to ask us out to dinner.'

'I'm sure he'll ring,' Emma commented reassuringly, aware of the note of interest in Irene's voice and thankful for it.

'Out to dinner. . .and I'm not scared. Oh, Emma!' she said brokenly. 'What happened to me? How did you bear it all?'

'You're my sister and I love you,' Emma replied simply.

'I'll never be able to make it up to you.' She went and put her arms around Emma. No words were spoken, but they clung together.

Emma said softly, 'Your happiness is all I ask.'

Irene moved back to her chair and sat very still, almost scared that the tranquillity would go away and that she would once more be in her spin-dryer world of fear, desolation and instability. She had been
out,
talked to two strange men. Been
aware
of one as a man whom she realised was attractive. Emotion overwhelmed her; she was experiencing feelings and reactions to everything around her, absorbing facts like someone who had been given a beautiful meal after a period of starvation. The churning sensation in her stomach had gone. The terror of Emma being out of her sight. And she knew she was exhausted by the sheer wonder of it all as she said, 'I feel I've run a long race and am healthily tired.'

The old protective instinct surged as Emma said, 'A rest before supper. I bought some smoked salmon. . .'

Her voice changed with consternation, as Irene said firmly, 'I've done too much resting. We'll get supper together.' She looked at Emma levelly, 'Begin as we mean to go on. There's a lot of living to catch up on. That is what
they
would want us to do.' As she spoke, she indicated a photograph of their parents which stood on a nearby table.

Emma smiled. She was trying to believe in miracles and wipe out fear.

During the following week Irene had taken things gradually, the initial enthusiasm settling into a reasoned assessment, as she went for walks and took an active interest in all that was going on around her, and in the world. Marion was so staggered that she found herself studying Irene as though she were some rare exhibit upon which she dared not comment. Timothy Wain telephoned and Irene spoke to him as though it were natural for her to have priority, when actually his indebtedness was to Emma. It was arranged that he would pick them up in his car which, he assured her, had been restored to its usual appearance. 'We'll go to the Flamingo,' he said easily. The Flamingo was an attractive restaurant in Windsor.

A little flutter of nervousness touched Irene. How would she feel, dining in a strange restaurant with a man who was almost a stranger? But she had no fear that she would back out, no matter how great the strain. This was like recovering from an illness, gaining strength each day. It struck her that she would tell him of her agoraphobia, as though he were already a friend in whom she could confide. She mentioned the fact to Emma, after Emma had spoken to him and eventually replaced the receiver.

Emma's amazement grew with each succeeding day when she was aware of Irene's confidence returning, grateful for the stability of the pace. The dinner outing would be a test and a highlight, and as it was arranged for the following week, it would give her more time for adjustment. The thought of Adam stung with greater force as each day passed. Irene had not mentioned him since that first discussion, when Emma had hoped she might wish to communicate with him and Edmund Bryant to put them in the medical picture, which was inevitable at some time or another should either of them need a doctor.

And as though reading Emma's thoughts, Irene said almost abruptly, 'I don't know why, but I rather dread seeing Adam. I've no defences with him.' She added rather poignantly, 'He must despise me.'

Emma rose in protest.

'That doesn't come into it,' she insisted.

'You
could tell him.' Irene had a half hopeful, half pleading note in her voice.

Emma shuddered at the thought of approaching him. He had every right to be triumphant.

'We'll see,' she said quickly.
'Now, where do you
want to go in the car?'

'I'd like you to park and then we could walk up Castle Hill. You forget that I've not seen the castle since the fire. . . Oh, Emma! Is it really me talking?'

Emma had a strange feeling of drama building up around her, as though this period of calm were unreal. The thought of Adam not only possessed her—it haunted her.

Adam had, during this time, plunged deeper into work, standing in for his partners, accepting colleagues' night calls, in a fruitless endeavour to fight his love for Emma. There had been the fugitive hope that he might meet her in the town. Bitterly he reminded himself that she never wanted to see him again, and that everything she had done during their association had been calculated to diminish him and emphasise that he had no place in her world, even to working for an agency in preference to taking his case. Her excuse had been feeble. Why torture himself? Why not seek other attractions? Was he going to turn life into a glorified hell? He despised himself on this particular morning when he was walking up Castle Hill, and made a vow to dismiss her from his thoughts and go in search of new adventures.
Live
again.

It was then that he saw her and, to his astonishment, Irene, coming towards him. There was no way he could escape them.

Emma
saw Adam with a mixture of emotion and apprehension, aware of his expression of amazement as he looked at Irene with what was obviously professional assessment. But his gaze as it moved to her was inscrutable, his manner cool.

'I'm glad,' he said significantly, 'to see you
both
out.'

Irene felt awkward; she wanted to talk to him, but this was not the place and she rightly judged his mood to be cautious. Emma looked embarrassed and, Irene thought miserably, sad. She hastened to say, 'I'm better.'

Adam studied her with unnerving calm as he said, 'Those are words a doctor above all likes to hear.'

Emma could not bear the atmosphere of formality; they were there, talking, but worlds apart. There was nothing in his manner, nor his expression, to suggest that they were other than strangers, and that he was not seeking an opening whereby he could escape.

There was a deathly silence which Adam broke by saying, 'I'm afraid I must be going. . .'

'I ' Irene wanted to explain.

Adam moved a few paces. 'Keep up the good work,' he said deliberately, and was gone without even looking at Emma, whose heart was racing, her limbs trembling and a feeling of faintness reducing her to silence.

Irene gasped, 'Emma! Are you all right?'

'Perfectly! Why?' Her voice cracked.

'You're so pale, and do you realise that you and Adam didn't say a word to each other?'

Emma took a deep breath and drew on what courage was left to her. 'You were the important one. . . How about a coffee?' She looked at the Castle Hotel and thought of the last time she was there with Adam when they had called a truce. There was irony in the reflection. But deep down within her there was an aching sense of being in the wrong and therefore responsible for Adam's attitude. It was like a wound that hurt with every breath. Yet she shrank from confiding in Irene because it would highlight her, Irene's, hysteria and the past symptoms, and conflict with her recovery.

Irene brightened. Those few words established her own normality. She could go into a hotel and have coffee! It was like a miracle. The people in the streets had a special significance; even the traffic did not dismay her, and the warm air on her face brought her to eager life. She would not let Adam spoil it, thrusting aside the atmosphere between him and Emma and drawing on her old optimism, believing that time would solve the problem and enable her to right any wrongs for which she had been responsible. It would be naive to believe that the relationship between Adam and Emma was normal.

'Even a coffee sounds like an adventure,' Irene said, her mood encompassing her own reactions to the exclusion of everything else as she went on, 'Being in the
car. . .
I'll never take anything for granted again—and now you must begin to go out.'

Emma's heart sank. She had no desire to go out. The gulf between her and Adam coloured every aspect of her life.

*

It was the following evening when Marion was at the house that Emma, having fought her emotions all day, said astonishingly, 'I'm going to see Adam at his house.