There was a samovar, and we had excellent tea with lemon in it, and some cold smoked salmon on thick slices of buttered bread. Kameneff and the two Comrades were too absorbed in their discussion to eat anything. One Comrade was telling something, Kameneff took notes, and our host, a small nervous man, rolled bread pellets.
Madame, in an even voice, plied me with questions:
“When did you leave London?”
“How long did you take from Stockholm to Reval? Oh, dear, a day and a half late! We have no news here, tell me some.”
“Is Comrade Kameneff really chassé from England?”
“Is it true that Krassin will soon follow?”
“What pretty hair you have, mademoiselle. Is it naturally that colour? Does it curl naturally so?”
“Is there a famine in England? I hear there is no longer sugar or butter? But there will be a famine when your strike begins?”
“What, you have not a macintosh with you?”
“Nor an umbrella?”