“She did indeed, sir,” said Boris earnestly. “Or perhaps it would be more truthful to say that she believed you set your duty to your Government above all personal sympathy.”
“She was right there,” Sir Robert rejoined sternly. “To a man in the position I once held duty must always come first, if he is to be worthy of that position. But if she had trusted me—as I never doubted she did till it was too late—if she had told me what was in her heart, in her mind, and that she was meeting—wishing to aid—her compatriots, her kinsfolk, how gladly, how greatly I could have helped her and them! But she told me nothing—not even of your existence. Yet surely she did not, she could not, have feared me?”
“Not personally, sir,” Boris answered slowly. “Paula was absolutely fearless; also she honoured and—yes, and loved you, though more as a daughter than——”
“Than as a wife. I know that. You are very honest, Mr. Melikoff! Well?”
“But I think—or rather I know—that she wanted to—to play her own hand herself in a way. To take all risks, and not to involve you——”
“Not involve me! Do you realize that by her action—her fatal action in taking those papers—she might have involved the whole of Europe in catastrophe?”
“I knew nothing of that, sir,” said Boris dejectedly.
“Quite so. I have satisfied myself on that point, through sources quite unknown to you; otherwise you would not be here now but in all probability would have been deported weeks ago, to meet whatever fate might be in store for you in your own country,” said Sir Robert grimly. “However, let that pass. Tell me this, Mr. Melikoff—I have a right to know: you loved each other, you two foolish and headstrong children?”
Boris met his searching gaze sadly but steadily.
“I loved her, Sir Robert; and I have loved her ever since we were little children together. But she never loved me. I do not think Paula ever loved any man—not in the sense most of us mean by the word.”