the stage. Not enough
self-confidence--too sensitive. People think she's always in the
sulks--and so she is, these days. I'd been trying for six months' sick
leave, and just got it when I read that stuff in the paper about Beckett
being killed, and his parents hearing the news the day they arrived. It
struck me like drama: things do. I was born dramatic--took it from my
mother. The thought came to me, how dead easy 'twould be for some girl
to pretend she'd been engaged to Beckett, and win her wily way to the
hearts and pockets of the old birds. Next I thought: Why not Dierdre?
And there wasn't _any_ reason why not! I told her it would be good
practice in acting. (She hasn't quite given up hope of the stage yet.)
We started for Paris on the job; and then I read in a later copy of the
same paper about the smart young lady who'd stepped in ahead of us. If
old Beckett hadn't been bursting with pride in the heroic girl who'd got
a medal for nursing infectious cases in a hospital near St. Raphael, I'd
have given up the game for a bad job. I'd have taken it for granted that
Jim and the fiancee had met before we met him at St. Raphael. But when
the paper said they'd made acquaintance there, and gave your name and
all, I knew you were on the same trail with us. You'd walked in ahead,
that was the only difference. And _we_ had the snapshots. We could call
witnesses to swear that no nurse from your hospital had come near St.
Raphael, and to swear that none of the chaps in the aviation school had
ever come near them. Dierdre hadn't been keen at first, but once she was
in, she didn't want to fail again; especially for a North of Ireland
girl like you. She was ready to go on. But the newspaper gushed a good
deal over your looks, you remember. My curiosity was roused. I was--sort
of obsessed by the thought of you. I decided to see what your head was
like to look at before chopping it off. And anyhow, you'd already
started on your jaunt. Through a rich chap I knew in New York, who's
over here helping the Red Cross, I got leave to carry supplies to the
evacuated towns, provided I could find my own car. Well, I found
it--such as it is. All I ask of it is not to break down till the
Becketts have learned to love me as their dear, dead son's best friend.
As for Dare--what she was to the dear dead son depends on you."

"Depends on me?" I repeated.

"Depends on you. Dare's not a good Sunday-school girl, but she's good to
her brother--as goo