V

I see now, as I think of it, that gold day of June, with the rippling Danube under the breeze, and the sunshine glinting on the towers and windows of Bratislava. I see the mists lifting towards midday, and the ebb of humanity from the scorching decks to the Speisesaal, where the wide-open windows are only an arm's length over the water. Everywhere, like a seething tropical incense, is the tang of paprika; paprika flavouring the soup: paprika stuffed with rice as an entrée; a slice of paprika with the veal and a wedge with dessert; rust-brown paprika pepper in all the cruets; golden Magyar wine and paprika—polyglot chatter and flashing gold-filled teeth and paprika—Heavens, what a meal—a strident C Major symphony of a meal.... And then the beat of the engines suddenly hushed, and the boat gliding against some wayside landing-place where all the local folk are gathered—red-bloused, yellow-bloused peasant women and a gendarmerie in blue.... Swift and magical interlude—with the brown-skinned men, waist-naked, rowing in the river, and the boatmen half-singing as they haul in the gangway—"Achtung—Achtung...." Then off again into midstream, chug-chugging under the porcelain blaze of the afternoon....

But at last, with tropic swiftness, the sun sinks low and dusk falls; it is the grey Danube, and then the black Danube, with the forests rolling down to the far edge of it. And the tang of paprika, lulled for a while, is spreading and deepening again, until the boat is almost hushed with it—as if the ghosts of all the lunches and dinners that have ever been served on board have come back to haunt.... It is intolerable and unforgettable, with the waiters slinking round and the bald heads, glistening with sweat, and the clink of glasses, and the lights of Pesth already aglow in the southern sky, and Terry lingering over his coffee and telling me how pitiable it would be to interrupt his friendship with Mizzi by marrying her....

All that comes back to me now, as I write, more clearly than I could ever have believed.

VI

We reached Pesth at seven o'clock, and drove to the hotel that Mizzi had recommended—the Andrassy. There we booked rooms, and thence, half an hour later, strolled out into the cool and flower-scented streets. The city was living, enchanted—the pavements thronged, and all the cafés noisy with speech and laughter. At one of them, as we passed, a couple were just leaving, and we eagerly took their places, squirming our way amidst the shrubs and marble-topped tables. Terry had coffee and I a bottle of Tokay, and the orchestra (one fiddle and a piano) played very languorously Toselli's Serenade. It was the sort of night when you never dream of asking what time it is—when life seems to rush at you full-tilt and bring the tears to your eyes (or perhaps it is only the wine that does that; one never knows.) And then suddenly, as I was lighting an immense cigar, I saw a man approaching whose face I vaguely recollected; he evidently knew me as well, for he smiled and held out his hand with great cordiality.... Ah, I remembered—his name was Bentley. I didn't know him at all well, and I daresay if he had seen me in a London restaurant he wouldn't have bothered to introduce himself at all. But Buda-Pesth was different, and my single meeting with him at one of the Englehart parties in Eaton Square gave him ample excuse for affability.

I introduced him to Terry, and he sat down and accepted a cigar. He was pleasant enough company, though no doubt he was better pleased to see us than we were to see him. He was in an English firm of electrical engineers, he told us, and had been sent out to some God-damned spot in the middle of Transylvania to see what was wrong with some equally God-damned turbine. And the God-damned job had taken three weeks, and as he didn't know a word of the God-damned language he had had what might be termed a perfectly God-damned time. But he was on his way back now, thank heaven, and would continue the journey by the Orient Express that evening. "Awfully jolly meeting you in a place like this, eh? Damn it all, it's decent to hear my own voice again, let alone yours. But you're not the only English folks I have seen in this city. There were an interesting couple at the hotel where I stayed overnight—the Andrassy."

"Our hotel," I interpolated, and he went on: "Oh, well, then, you're almost bound to meet them. I didn't—I was only there for a few hours, and the chap was with his wife—very en famille sort of thing, don't you know—and besides, I only knew him by sight. But I believe you once told me he was a great pal of yours—Geoffrey Severn, the lawyer johnny...."

I remember saying, very calmly: "Really? How extraordinary! And his wife as well, you say?"

And Bentley's casual reply: "Yes.... Damned pretty woman, too...."