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THE Winston home was on the North Shore of Long Island, about twenty miles out from the city. They had stopped by Nora's apartment to pick up a few things, and it was well after midnight by the time Peter and Nora arrived.

The whole area was very quiet and pitch-dark, with heavy black clouds blanketing the night sky. The Winston property was enclosed by a high iron fence. When they pulled up at the gate, Peter reached into the glove compartment of the car and pressed a switch. The heavy gates before them slowly opened and they drove through.

Peter guided the car slowly up a gently curving driveway. Nora could just make out the dark shapes of trees and shrubs on either side, and, up ahead at last, a sprawling mass that was the house.

Only a few lights burned at the windows, but Nora could smell wood smoke, and thought she could see a trailing wisp of grey rising to the black sky out of one of the several chimneys.

Peter stopped the car in front of the house. It was bitterly cold, and Nora shivered in her thin black coat. They got out and walked up the wide stone steps that led up to the double doors, massively built of hardwood with shining brass handles and a doorknocker in the shape of a sea shell. On either side of the doors round electric lamps were hung, set in black wrought-iron fittings.

Peter took out a key and unlocked the door. When he opened it they were greeted by a welcome rush of warm air.

'Come on,' Peter said, taking her hand and drawing her into the long, wide hall.

Nora stared. The foyer was almost the size of her whole apartment.

Bright red, blue and gold-patterned oriental rugs lay on the shining terrazzo floor. There were bright sconces set at intervals along the dark-panelled walls, casting a rich glow on the luxurious carpets and heavily-framed paintings.

Suddenly, Nora felt frightened. What was she doing here in this grand estate with a man she hardly knew? There was no tangible substance to her sudden anxiety. She knew she was in no danger.

She merely felt momentarily disoriented.

'There's a light on in the library,' Peter said. He pulled her after him as he set off towards an open door at the back of the hall. 'My mother retires late.'

Noticing the look of trepidation on her face, he gave her a warm, confident smile and squeezed her hand. Then he tucked her arm under his and brushed her hair back lightly from her forehead.

'Come on,' he said. 'She'll love you.'

They went through the door and into a room Nora thought only existed in movies. There was a large fireplace panelled in dark wood, with a cheery fire blazing. The walls were lined with books and paintings, with heavy red velvet draperies at the windows. The carpet was a deep rich ruby colour, the furniture polished mahogany; obviously valuable antiques.

A small woman with a fluffy cloud of white hair framing delicate features was seated in front of the fire, a book in her lap. She wore a rich velvet robe of emerald green and had soft black slippers on her tiny feet. Her eyes were closed.

Peter walked to her chair, his hand still on Nora's arm, propelling her along with him. He leaned over and put a hand on his mother's shoulder, shaking it gently.

The eyes flew open, blinked a few times, then gradually focussed.

She looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. Then she smiled.

'Why, Peter,' she said, 'you did bring her.' She held out a small hand covered with diamonds. 'My dear, I'm so glad you could come. I've heard so much about you.' She stood up. 'You know,' she chattered on, her hand clasping Nora's, 'I'm a great celebrity collector. I have no talents of my own, and I like to surround myself with creative people. I hope you don't mind.'

Peter laughed. 'Mother's giving you the full treatment right away,' he said, looking fondly down at the small woman. He glanced at Nora. 'And don't believe her no-talent sob story. She has the finest collection of orchids in the country.'

'Oh, Peter,' Mrs Winston protested. 'Orchids grow themselves.

Talent doesn't enter into it.' She turned to Nora.

'How did the rehearsal go, my dear? I'm sure your costumes were a great success.'

'Quite well, thank you,' Nora replied.

'I knew they would be,' Mrs Winston said. 'So fresh and interesting, yet quite true to the period. I love Traviata. An old war-horse, I know, but then dear Verdi couldn't write a bad piece of music.'

Nora's head swam as she struggled to follow the conversation. Mrs Winston spoke of the great composer, dead for over eighty years,

as if he had been a personal friend. And how did she know so much about the costumes? Had Peter lied to her when he said he hadn't used his influence on her behalf?

'How . . . ?' she started to ask.

'The costumes?' Mrs Winston said. She smiled. 'Oh, yes, I've seen them. Dear Niles Thordarson and I are old friends.'

'Mother,' Peter broke in sternly, 'I have assured Nora that I—we—

had nothing to do with getting her designs used. Now, you're not going to make a liar out of me, are you?'

Mrs Winston raised her eyebrows. 'Oh, dear me, no. I didn't even know you and Miss Baird were acquainted then.' She turned to Nora,, a troubled look on her face. 'Like you, Miss Baird,. I do not believe in using influence to promote a career. I have too much respect for genuine talent to do that. Your success is due entirely to your own merits. I hope you believe me.'

'Of course I do,' Nora said, reassured. 'I don't mean to be priggish about it. It's just that you never know whether you have talent or not if your success is based on influence.'

Mrs Winston nodded. 'Very well said. Now, I'm sure you'd like to go to your room. You must be very tired. I know I am, and I've done nothing constructive all day.' She turned to Peter. 'I sent George and Alice to bed. Will you take Nora up? I've put her in the green room, next to Valerie.' She took both Nora's hands in hers.

'I'll say goodnight now. I only stayed up to meet you, my dear. I hope your visit is a pleasant one.'

They said goodnight, then, and Mrs Winston left them alone. Peter poked at the fire, scattering the dying embers, closing the heavy brass screen. He looked at Nora.

'Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?' 'No thanks, Peter. I'm really just awfully tired.'

'Of course,' he murmured. 'Come on. I'll show you to your room.' They went up a wide, gracefully curving staircase to the second-floor landing. Nora followed Peter, who was carrying her bag, down a long carpeted hallway, past several doors.

He stopped at the last one and opened it, stepping inside and flicking on the light. Nora followed him as he set her Bag down.

'Bathroom's in there,' he said, pointing. 'Lots of cupboard space.' He looked at her. 'I'll say goodnight, then. I know you're tired.' He put his arms around her and drew her to him. She stiffened momentarily, then realised she was being silly. She lifted her face to receive his kiss, soft, and gently protective.

'Goodnight, darling,' he whispered. Then he was gone.

In spite of her exhaustion, Nora had trouble sleeping. She was still in the clouds over her success that evening, the offer to do the next opera, her own studio. Her mind raced as she planned what she would do with more money to spend. She had been so poor for so long that it had become a way of life with her to banish all thoughts from her mind of spending money.

Fix up the apartment first, she thought. Then maybe get some new clothes, have her hair styled. She had always wanted to travel.

Perhaps a trip to Europe, an opera tour—La Scala, Glyndebourne,

the Vienna Statsopera, Bayreuth. She would like to see what the European costume designers were doing, study the old masters.

She tossed and turned in the comfortable double bed, unable to settle down. She thought of Reed and how elegant he had looked in his white tie and tails. She knew she had to forget him, that he wasn't for her, but she couldn't get him out of her mind. If only . . . Well, if only what? She had had her chance once and blown it.

Now he saw her as just a green kid. Even so, she couldn't help going over again in her mind their few brief encounters. Closing her eyes, letting her imagination wander, she could almost feel his strong, masculine presence in the room with her.

Finally she got up and walked to the window. She pulled the heavy green draperies aside and looked out. There was a bright moon, and as she surveyed the unfamiliar landscape of large trees and dense shrubbery as far as the eye could see, she began to realise why she was having so much trouble sleeping.

It was too quiet. She had become so accustomed to the noises of the city in her basement apartment that she found the silence of the country unsettling. There was no sound of traffic going by or the occasional screaming siren she was used to. No blinking neon lights. No pounding on the ceiling from the tenants upstairs or loud stereo from next door.

She sighed and got back in bed. The city had her hooked for good, she thought. Finally, she dozed off in a fitful sleep, awake again at dawn as a pale winter sun came through her bedroom window.

The weekend passed quickly, and the kindness and hospitality of the Winstons made Nora feel very much at home. Still, at odd moments she would find herself longing to get back to New York,

to her own apartment, but especially to the opera house and her new studio and her work.

Peter was very attentive the whole two days. They took long walks together, played Scrabble in front of one of the roaring fires that were constantly going in the library and living room. The meals were delicious, served silently and skilfully by a maid in a black uniform with a frilly white apron, a sight Nora had only seen before in movies and plays.

Mrs Winston was a gracious, yet unobtrusive hostess. There seemed to be a silent conspiracy to leave Peter and Nora alone as much as possible. This troubled Nora. She liked Peter very much.

He was everything—and more—she could ever want in a man. But she was not in love with him. His nearness was comforting, pleasant, but never made her pulses race or her blood tingle as the merest glimpse of Reed Thatcher could do.

Valerie, Peter's younger sister, turned out to be somewhat reserved and distant. This suited Nora. She had been afraid she might have been expected to exchange girlish confidences with her, and was relieved when she saw that Valerie, while friendly, had no intention of promoting an instant intimacy.

When Peter asked his sister to lend Nora some suitable clothes, she had graciously agreed, and right after breakfast Saturday morning had invited Nora to her room to choose what she needed.

'I'm afraid I'll need everything,' Nora apologised as the two girls walked up the graceful staircase together. 'What I have on is all I brought. Peter said . . .'

'We're about the same size,' Valerie had commented, with only one brief, polite glance at Nora's blue denims and plaid shirt. She opened her cupboard door. 'Choose what you like. You'll want

some warmer trousers and a sweater. We'll dress for dinner tonight, so you'll need something formal.'

Nora gasped as she surveyed the contents of the cupboard, as big as a small bedroom, with beautiful clothes of every description hanging neatly in an orderly pattern. She had never seen so many clothes outside a department store.

'I—I don't know where to begin,' she stammered. She turned to Valerie and made a helpless gesture with her hands. 'Won't you choose for me? You know better than I what will be suitable.' She could see Valerie thaw visibly, even smile briefly as she eyed Nora. 'You're not what I expected,' she said finally. 'I had visions of you pawing through my clothes and . . .' She stopped abruptly, colouring deeply. 'I beg your pardon. What an unforgivable thing to say.'

'Please, don't apologise,' Nora said stiffly. She was deeply hurt.

'I'm the one who should ask your pardon. Peter had no right to impose on you like this.' She turned to go.

Valerie caught her arm. 'Please,' she said. 'Please don't go. As you can see, I can't possibly wear all these clothes. I want you to use them.'

Nora hesitated. She sounded as though she meant it. She sighed.

'All right. I'd appreciate your help, though. I'm not very interested in clothes.'

Valerie's eyes widened. 'A designer!' she exclaimed. 'Not interested in clothes?'

Nora gave an embarrassed laugh. 'I guess that does sound pretty silly. I haven't had any money to spend on clothes, and have been

too busy to think much about them. Besides, I don't go out much, and in wardrobe it doesn't matter what we wear because the smocks cover it anyway.'

'But I understood you were out of the wardrobe department now,' Valerie commented over her shoulder as she went through the racks of clothes.

'That's right,' Nora replied. 'I keep forgetting. I'll have to get some new clothes, I guess.'

They finally chose a pair of wool trousers, in a muted plaid of heather-green, tan and cream, with a matching green cashmere pullover to wear during the day. For evening they decided on a long red velveteen dress with a low scoop-neck and full skirt.

'You know,' Valerie said as they transferred the clothes into Nora's room next door, 'when Peter told us he was hoping to get you out here for the weekend, I was very apprehensive.' Nora gave her a sharp look. Valerie went on hurriedly. 'I wouldn't have told you that except that I wanted you to know I don't feel that way any more now that I've met you.'

'Well, I'm glad of that,' Nora said wryly. Valerie's frankness was beginning to wear a little thin. Nora didn't like the position she seemed to be in of finding herself on trial, like a piece of livestock.

'I know I'm saying this badly,' Valerie went on, making a little face. She looked directly at Nora. 'I love my brother very much.

He's a wonderful man.'

'I agree entirely,' Nora said. She shut the cupboard door and turned to Valerie. 'Tell me, what do you think our relationship is?'

Valerie only stared for a moment. Then, 'Well, I'm not sure. I guess I thought, well, that . . .' She trailed off helplessly.

'Peter and I are friends, Valerie,' Nora said firmly. 'Only friends.

From my point of view, that's what we'll always be.'

'I see,' Valerie said quietly. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. 'Does Peter know that?' she asked.

'Yes. He's always known it.'

Valerie sighed and stood up. 'Poor Peter. To finally get bitten and then find he's only to be a friend.'

Nora thought about that conversation on Sunday afternoon as Peter drove her home. There had been a light snowfall that morning. She and Peter had taken the dogs for a walk. Valerie had loaned her boots, a parka and gloves. They had stayed out an hour, forming meagre snowballs and throwing them lightly at each other, laughing and totally at ease in each other's company.

Occasionally, during her stay at the Winstons, Nora would glance at Peter and surprise a look on his face of a disturbing intensity of feeling, but he never forced himself on her. He enjoyed being with her, but apart from a chaste goodnight kiss outside her bedroom door, or an arm flung casually around her shoulder when they were out walking, their relationship wasn't physical at all.

She wondered now if she was being fair to him by seeing him at all. Perhaps she should call it off before he got really serious.

'Penny for them,' Peter said easily, his eyes leaving the road for an instant to flick briefly at her.

She laughed. 'They're hardly worth that, even in this inflated age.' 'You looked very serious there for a moment,' he commented. She was silent, not knowing what to say. 'Didn't you enjoy yourself?' he went on in a heavier tone. 'I know Val can be sticky at times, but Mother usually makes up for it with her vague charm.' He glanced at her again.

'No,' she said quickly. 'It's not Valerie. She was a little—sticky—at first, but became quite friendly when . . .' She trailed off, not sure she should continue.

'When what?' he asked. 'Come on, Nora, you can't leave it at that.' She decided to plunge in. 'Well, then, when I told her that you and I were only friends.' She saw his brown eyes light up in a rare flash of anger.

'Val had no right. . .' He began through clenched teeth.

'She had every right!' Nora exclaimed loudly. 'She loves you very much. She wasn't warning me off you. She's only concerned about your welfare.' There was a short silence. 'Anyway,' she went on, 'I began to think about it, and wondering if we should keep seeing each other.'

'Why on earth not?' he asked. 'What's Val got to do with . . .'

'You don't understand, Peter. Val's right. She doesn't want you to get hurt. Neither do I. You're so kind and decent and caring. I—I'm very fond of you, Peter.'

'But,' he said grimly, 'you don't love me. Okay. I know that. I've always known it. I'm a grown man. I've been in love before.

Probably will be again. If you enjoy my company, let's just leave it at that.'

They had reached her apartment by now. It was early evening, the December sun setting by five o'clock. Peter carried her bag in and said goodnight.

'I'll call you when I get back from Seattle,' he said. 'And no more foolishness about my welfare. I'm not as fragile as I look.

Promise?'

She nodded. He put his hands on her shoulders, brushed her lips lightly with his, and was gone.

The next morning, Nora was awake before dawn. She was so

The next morning, Nora was awake before dawn. She was so