Barbara nodded.
“And you’re working in Bolo House too?” she asked.
“For the last six months.”
“Well I never! And to think we never met before! But how small the world is—how absurdly small.”
We met for luncheon.
“Did you get my letter?” I summoned up courage to ask her over the coffee.
Barbara nodded. “It was months and months on its way,” she said; and I did not know whether she made the remark deliberately, in order to stave off for a moment the inevitable discussion of the letter, or if she made it quite spontaneously and without afterthought, because she found it interesting that the letter should have been so long on its way. “It went to South Africa and back again,” she explained.
“Did you read it?”
“Of course.”
“Did you understand what I meant?” As I asked the question I wished that I had kept silence. I was afraid of what the answer might be.