“My son! . . . Come in, Alexis. We have an English visitor.”
The young man saluted, and then shook hands with Bertram, and spoke in perfectly accurate English.
“Delighted to meet you, sir. My father and mother told me they had asked for the honour of a visit from you.”
He sat on the edge of his sister’s stool and put his arm round her waist affectionately.
“Well, Nadia!”
The old lady seemed to read the thought passing through Bertram’s mind.
“You are surprised that we have a son in the Red Army? It is either that or death for our young men.”
The boy, Alexis—he seemed a year or two younger than Nadia—looked down at his uniform with a smile.
“It’s not only fear of death that makes me wear these clothes. I’m a Russian. I help to defend my soil from all invaders. Does not honour and a decent code of patriotism require that, sir?”
He asked the question of Bertram, who did not answer.