“Anything else?” I asked.
“Oh, food’s worse than ever! Going up every day, and the bread queues are longer and longer. The Germans have spies in the queues, women who go up and down telling people it’s all England’s fault.”
“And people are just the same?”
“Just the same; Donons’ and the Bear are crowded every day. You can’t get a table. So are the cinematographs and the theatres. I went to the Ballet last night.”
“What was it?”
“‘La fille mal gardée’—Karsavina dancing divinely. Every one was there.”
This closed the strain of public information. I led him further.
“Well, Bohun, what about our friends the Markovitches?” I asked. “How are you getting on there?”
He blushed and looked at his boots.
“All right,” he said. “They’re very decent.”