Vladimir tried to follow, but his feet were unused to the stubble of the field. By the time he reached the peasant’s house, there was no sign of the girl.
By the light of the lamp Vladimir looked hard and almost grimly at the faded snapshot of a laughing girl in white. What the girl must have been at fourteen—when she had flown.
Reverently, Vladimir, to whom the wrecked woman had given back his manhood—reverently, he brought the snapshot to his lips.
He rose with the dawn the next morning and hurried down. The girl was already in the kitchen. To his greeting, she replied in a murmur and avoided his eyes. She handed him his coffee in silence.
When he had finished, he held out his hand.
“Good-by,” he said.
She extended hers timidly. Her hand trembled.
“You’re flying back?” she asked.
“Yes, back to Berlin,” he said, taking her hand in his.
“They may arrest you for stealing the plane.” The girls soft dark eyes searched Vladimir’s face anxiously.