The broad street was more crowded than usual... rows of “buses” one behind another... and the signal light changing from red to green and to red again without the crowd thinning — as though a torrent of human beings were pouring past.

And Karen was like one lost... She had spent a great deal on what her sister Dorta had called “a special Christmas”... and she had nothing left but the price of the ticket home... “A special Christmas”... she meant that Cliff Carlop would ask for her hand.

Ah, if only there were someone here other than Cliff — but from where?... Their house in Sussex was not open to bachelors... and the flower farm had lately withered, after the insects and the early cold had rav-aged it... and the orchids — how they had changed!

The “bus” stopped again... People jumped off, their noses reddened by the cold... and Karen thought: I shall be late getting back, and there is the turkey to prepare... and the church to decorate...

The turkey, for Cliff?... She seemed to have murmured the words in a voice the man sitting beside her heard, for he looked at her... A quiet beauty... round cheeks... and fair hair lying under a little hat as red as cherries.

She said to herself: there are a few minutes... I will address the Christmas cards in them... and she strug-gled until she got them, with the pen, out of her bag.

The “bus” stopped again and the cards fell... The man sitting beside her bent and gathered them politely, and she thanked him... and in a flash her heart leaped madly...

Mike Anderson! Could it be?... He was in Rhodesia — had he come back?... Their palms had brushed, and his two brown hands were there beside her...

He did not know her — and no wonder... She had been a child when he saw her last... a schoolgirl pre-paring for the examination she failed... and he was in those days up to his ears in love with her sister Dorta.

She had loved him with her small heart... and it was enough for him to say “Hello, Karen!” for her whole being to tremble.

She remembered the past, and how she differed from Dorta in everything, even in the small things... Dorta would kill outright the insects that ravaged the flowers... while she would hurry to save their lives and set them loose out of her sister's sight.

Her mother had loved Mike... and was sad when Dorta sent him away... Neither the mother nor the father had liked Cliff... But both of them were dead now... killed on Christmas Eve in a motor accident... and that was another reason why Christmas had not been happy since that accident.

She glanced again — stealthily — at the man beside her and thought... all that was over. She had mastered her feelings — and yet how handsome he was... the dark hair above the broad forehead... the nose... the mouth... the clothes that said frankly they were on the body of a successful man... Should she make herself known to him? Should she tell him she was Dorta's sister?... He did not know, of course, that they had left Norfolk after their parents' death...

But perhaps he had married... or perhaps he was on his way to meet a sweetheart, to announce their engagement on Christmas Eve.

He had a married sister, and no doubt he was going to her... If only Dorta could see him... Then — after five years in which she had grown sensible — she would not give Cliff the chance of a lifetime.

He was looking at the cards on her lap... and a sudden idea came to her... Quickly she began addressing the cards... the first to an uncle of hers in Scotland... the second to a school friend... She lingered over the third, then wrote slowly: Miss Dorta Fielding... Shom Flower Farm... Brighton... and lingered again before closing the card...

She heard a deep sigh... He had seen the address, and if he wished, he would get in touch with Dorta.

She reached home, and Dorta met her, saying