“There are good women in Germany. One of them loves you already.”
“Meaning Anna von Wegener?”
“You have guessed?”
She was astonished at the rapidity of his intuition, and surprised, and rather hurt, when he laughed.
“It wasn’t a difficult guess. She doesn’t let concealment ‘like a worm i’ the bud, feed on her damask cheek.’ ”
Then he spoke seriously to this sister who had always been his comrade.
“I’m still haunted by the thought of Joyce. I pretend I’ve done with her, cut her image out of my heart and soul. But that’s bunkum. She comes into my dreams at night, and stands between me and the sunlight. I can’t play about with other women—or do more than play—until I’ve cut out Joyce, and the wound is healed.”
She pressed his hand with a sympathy that was good to him.
“Explain to Anna,” he said, “or she’ll think I’m heartless.”
Perhaps she explained well enough. Anna von Wegener was very demure next time she met Bertram, and only showed by her blush that she remembered the scene in the wood. She was with Dorothy and Von Arenburg at the Schlesische Bahnhof when Bertram took the train to Riga.