But Marie Lou came to have the fixed opinion that she would undoubtedly prefer an Englishman for a husband, because they were so kind and reliable; and Richard declared that he could never contemplate marrying an English girl because they were so dull!
The fourth day of their stay brought a different atmosphere. In the morning Richard had a long interview with Gerry Bruce and an elderly Polish Jew. It seemed that the latter knew Kiev as well as Richard knew the West End of London. He gave much interesting information, particularly about the Kievo-Pecher-Lavra, the ancient monastery that had been turned into a prison. Unfortunately his activities in the past had been such that he was no longer able to enter the Soviet, so he was unable to accept Richard’s invitation to accompany them.
In the afternoon Richard’s passport was returned, visaed as good for a month’s visit to the U.S.S.R. That evening he again took Marie Lou out to dinner, but their former gaiety had disappeared. Both were thinking of the morrow and what was to come after. They were to make an early start in the morning, and so went early to bed.
Gerry Bruce drove them out to the air-park in the morning. He was more serious than usual, and as he shook hands with Richard he said: “Go easy, old chap. I mean it. Don’t do anything to get yourself into trouble. If you are tempted to” — he grinned, suddenly — “well, think of the wife!”
The weather had turned grey and ugly; the going proved exceptionally bad. At Lemberg they landed for luncheon, and Marie Lou was pitifully white and shaken. It took all her courage to face the second half of the journey, but at last it was over. At six o’clock in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Richard Eaton stepped out of their ’plane at Kiev.
XIV — Conferences in Kiev
Simon lay propped up on a chaise-longue near the window. It was over a fortnight since he had received the wound in his thigh, and thanks to Marie Lou’s care, it had healed quickly. He was able to walk a little now with the aid of a stick, but he still had to keep his leg up most of the time.
The bedroom in the hotel at Kiev to which Valeria Petrovna had brought him after she secured his release, was a gloomy place. The heavy furnishings were of a date long preceding the revolution. Simon had seen similar rooms in old-fashioned provincial hotels in France, but this had the added dreariness that little attempt had been made to obliterate the traces of its generations of fleeing occupants.
A bottle of sweet Caucasian wine stood at Simon’s elbow, and a French novel lay open on his knees, but he seemed to be deriving little pleasure from either — he was gazing vacantly out of the window at the busy street below. Kiev seemed to be a hive of activity, but much of it, he supposed, was to be attributed to the five day week.
He caught a slight sound at the door, and turned his head. “Richard!” he exclaimed, in amazed surprise.