His skin jacket was sticking to Agrenev's back, as, no doubt,
Bitska's was also.
"My missus will soon be home," Bitska said cheerfully—he had recently been married. He spoke in broken Russian, with a foreign accent.
In Agrenev's house it was dark. The warm glow from the torches outside fell on the window-ledges and illuminated them, but inside the only light was that visible through the crevices of his wife's tightly closed door: his beloved wife—so aloof—so strange. The rain had started, and its drip on the roof was like the sound of water- falls: he changed, washed, took up a newspaper. The maid entered and announced that tea was ready.
His wife—tall, slim, beautiful, and strange—was standing by the window, her back to him, a book in her hand; a tumbler was on the window-sill close beside her. She did not turn round as he entered, merely murmuring: "Have some tea."
The electric light gave a brilliant glow. The freshly varnished woodwork smelt of polish. She did not say another word, but returned to her book, her delicate fingers turning over the leaves as, standing with bent head, she read.
"Are you going out this evening, Anna?" he asked.
"Eh? No, I am staying in."
"Is there anyone coming?"
"Eh? No, nobody. Are you going out?"
"I am not sure. I am going to-morrow on Detachment duty for a week."