YOU’RE far too soft-hearted, Helen,” Andrew said, his arm around her shoulders.
“Not soft-hearted. Humane,” Helen corrected. “Who among us hasn’t made a daft mistake in their lives?”
“Plenty, if the daft mistake involves selling secrets to the enemy.”
“The Russians are not the enemy,” Helen argued.
“After their Socialist Revolution?” he said bleakly. “Who knows who our next enemy will be? We can’t take chances. And don’t ever get between armed policemen and their target again.”
Helen’s head came up.
“I will do what I feel is right,” she snapped.
She felt his arm tighten.
“That’s my girl.” He smiled. “If you had done anything else but argue, I’d have been worried.”
They walked slowly along the city pavement.
“When have you to go back to London?” she asked.
“I hate it when we have to part like this,” Helen said.
“Me, too. Why don’t you marry me and come down to live in London?”
“Why don’t you marry me, and come up to live in Scotland?” she countered.
Andrew turned and gathered her into his arms.
“That silly job clash again.” He sighed. “So we’ll just have to carry on and make the best of it, I suppose?”
Helen reached her arms round the back of his neck.
“Mind you,” she said. “The best is pretty good.”