"But you've only been here a few months," he went on. "It's not part of your bones."
"I've these," she said, looking round the room, which was peopled with peasant women and children, injured by Prussian shells or gases, whilst working in their fields. "I can't leave them."
He lowered his voice and bent over her, though not one of those suffering, frightened souls could understand what he said. "I've talked things over with the Count. It's plain enough that they're not going to leave this old house of theirs even if the Germans come for good. That's their look-out. If I were in their shoes I'd probably do the same thing. The Germans will have to burn them out. But you're not a Pole--Miss Burton. If they catch you here, they'll give you a pretty bad time of it."
Her eyes flashed.
"I'm going to stay all the same," she said firmly. "The Russians aren't beaten yet."
He gave a slow gesture of despair.
"It's going to be a long party and the Germans 'll make another push for Warsaw soon. You're right in their road here."
He looked at her, a little pleadingly. He hated the thought of leaving her in the midst of this desolation, possibly a prey to German "Kultur." He had not noticed anything to make him suspect that Ian, rather than wounded refugees, was in her mind when she refused to leave. He had not seen the two together. Ian was busy all day long outside the house, she in the wards. His admiration for her grew.
"Haven't you any family?" he asked.
"One brother with the Fleet and another in Flanders."