The Diary Of Pamela D.

When it came time to sing hymns, however, she found that the choir-director had actually turned and was looking right at her. Thinking that she was singing too loud, or off-key, or something, she flushed with embarrassment, dropped her gaze to the vicinity of the floor and mouthed the rest of the words.

At the end of the service, as the congregation was breaking up, she watched with her heart in her mouth as the choir-director approached her. Flustered, she said, 'I didn't mean . . . I'm sorry . . . '

'Mr. Howard, meet the newest addition to our staff, Miss Pamela Dee,' Mrs. Dewhurst said. 'And don't mind her. She's always apologizing for something, whether she needs to or not!'

'You have a North American accent,' he said to Pamela. 'Where are you from?'

Pamela told him.

'And how long do you intend on staying . . . ?' His eyes strayed to Mrs. Dewhurst as he said this.

'Why, she is living with us more or less permanently, Mr. Howard.'

'Indeed? Then perhaps Miss Dee would be so kind as to lend our little choir the use of her beautiful soprano voice?'

'Wha- I can't sing!' Pamela blurted, turning crimson.

To her surprise, Mr. Howard and the people standing near to her chuckled in response.

'My dear,' Mr. Howard told her, 'if you truly cannot sing, then I hope to enjoy endless hours of your alleged inability in the weeks, months and years to come.'

'She'll be at choir practice on Wednesday,' said Mrs. Dewhurst, without waiting for an affirmation or refusal from Pamela.

'Splendid! I'll arrange transportation for her . . . '

The conversation became desultory after that, during which Pamela noticed Theo watching her with an odd expression- she couldn't tell whether he was angry with her or what. He had given her a similar look when he had first seen her wearing one of her new outfits, an autumn-rust-coloured sweater, heavy thigh-length forest-green wool skirt, comfortable black hose, the first she had ever worn in her life, sensible leather shoes, a fashionable-looking beret and warm quilted jacket. His eyes, then as now, strayed almost unwillingly to her legs, her bust, her overall form, as though he was satisfied with what he saw- if "satisfied" was the right word. She found herself squirming under his scrutiny, but not as though she didn't like his attention, but rather because she found herself wishing . . . what? That he would come to her and- do what? Once again, her gaze caught by his, she found something disturbing in his gaze that took her breath away, made her heart pound uncontrollably. But she didn't look away, afraid that if she did so, he would too, would lose interest in whatever it was he saw in her.