"I did so little. I did so little. It was such a little mistake!"
Self-pity flooded her.
"And why did he ask me to come to the Cathedral if such a little thing, such a little thing…." Indignation rose.
"Things don't crumble like that, don't vanish like that!" She stared, astonished, at the scenes she had left behind her, the shining of the dark Cathedral, the ripple on the Moselle. "But they do, they do, they do…."
Down in the street her own name caught her ear, and she went to the window.
"Are you there, are you there?" cried the voice.
Hanging waist-deep out of the window she received her orders for the next day.
"I came down to tell you now," said the girl below on the pavement. "I thought you might have things to do to the car. You must be at the Hôtel Royal, near the station, at half-past six to-morrow morning."
"Have you any idea whom I'm to take? Or where?"
"I don't know where, but the man is a Russian colonel."
She drew her head back through the window, and the gay tumble of the street gave way to the impersonal, heavy room. Cramming her oil-stained overall into her haversack, she put on her leather coat and went up to the garage.