“Father,” said the girl, “this is the English gentleman.”
He did not look like a prince, as he rose from his packing-case chair. He looked at first glance like a dirty and dissipated old fellow who had been sleeping on the Thames Embankment. His trousers and frock coat were all baggy, and patched, and grease-stained. His hands were encrusted with dirt. But he greeted Bertram with a dignity that no poverty could take away.
“It is a pleasure to meet an English gentleman again. I knew England well before the war. You will excuse our poor apartment. We are reduced to ruin, and but for my dear wife and daughter, I should have no courage left.”
He held Bertram’s hand with a lingering grasp, and then glanced at his own with a sardonic smile.
“We have no soap at all, and it is hard even to get water for washing purposes. We can, however, make you a little tea, if you will give us the pleasure of drinking it with us. Nadia, there is enough tea for us all?”
“Yes, father. I will make it.”
“For four years,” said the old man, “we have lived on bread and tea, bread and tea, bread and tea. It is hard to keep one’s courage on such a diet!”
“It is better now that we can sell a few little things in the market place,” said the lady. “Is it not so, Alexander? In spite of the Cheka we managed to hide a few treasures!”
“My dear,” said the old man, “one never knows who may be listening.”
He glanced nervously towards the curtain.