“They do not know, and could not tell me; of course; and I myself do not even know how to address you. You must have seen this—whether madame or mademoiselle even?”
“You put your question adroitly, Burgwan. Are you Burgwan, really? But you can’t be, of course. You are American.”
“It is the name I have here; and I did not know how pleasant a sound it had until I heard you speak it. I would rather you called me by that name than any other. And you?”
She had her hands in her lap and kept her eyes bent down as she slowly clasped and unclasped her white fingers. Then she lifted her face and looked at me with a slow, hesitating smile.
“You might call me—Barinschja.”
“That is Russian for an unmarried woman, isn’t it?”
“Did you think I was married?” The smile in her grey eyes was unmistakably brighter.
“I did not think you were Russian.”
“I am not. I am a Serb.”
“Then what we have to do is to get you to Belgrade as soon as possible, Barinschja,” and I turned to the map.