She laid her slim hand on his. He raised it to his lips; but did not meet her fond gaze.
"He says he has written to Vanda, to come here, to meet him."
Ian gave a grunt. He thought it just like Joe's impudence to order people in and out of his house. But he said nothing. His mother went on:
"Vanda, it appears, wants the wedding to take place in Warsaw."
"She's right," he returned promptly. "A wedding in this muddle!" He looked out of the window, to the garden cut in trenches, and the barbed wire, rusty with spring rains, blotting what was once a peaceful vista of sedate comfort. "I'd write to the Europe about rooms, and to the Archbishop."
"But, Ianek, think of the expense, nowadays," she protested gently.
"It wouldn't be much. You need only invite the family. No lunch or anything, just a glass of champagne when you get back from church. A war wedding."
"Then you won't come, dear?"
"No. The work here ... you know how pressed I am for men." He lowered his voice: "It's easier that way."
She gave him one of her long, adoring looks, her hand on his shoulder.