“It was at first,” said Philip, who found it immensely difficult to tie his thoughts to his visitor. “And I hadn’t been lonely for so long—not since my first days in Moscow.”
“They were lonely then?”
“Oh, horribly. My first two months there were the worst hours in all my life. I wanted to learn Russian, so I kept away from English people—and Russian’s difficult to pick up at first.”
Faunder made one of the rumbling noises in his throat that always testified to his interest.
“I like what you said—over there, at my sister’s,” he waved his hand, “about Russia—and about everything. I listened, although perhaps you didn’t think it. I hope you’re going to stick to it, young man.”
“Stick to what?”
“Your ideas about things—everything being for the best. There’s a great time coming—and the Trenchards are damned fools.”
“But I never—”
“Oh, yes, you did. You implied it. Nobody minded, of course, because the Trenchards know so well that they’re not. They don’t bother what people think, bless them. Besides, you don’t understand them in the least—nor won’t ever, I expect.”
“But,” said Philip, “I really never thought for a moment.”