“Why? What has happened?”
“I can’t tell you, dear. That’s the heart-rending part of it. It’s secret—from the Foreign Office.”
She reacted in laughter. “Oh, my darling—how you frightened me. I thought it was something serious.”
“Of course it’s serious, if I have to leave you for three or four days—perhaps a week.”
“A week!” She stood aghast. It was serious. How could she face a lonely epoch of seven days, each counting twenty-four thousand halting hours? What did it mean?
“There are not many men who know Russian as I do. I’ve been in touch with the Intelligence Department ever since I landed in England. That’s why I went to Finland in the autumn. These things bind me to inviolable secrecy, beloved. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I understand,” she replied proudly.
“I could refuse—if you made a point of it. I’m a free man.”
She put her two hands on his shoulders—and ever after he had this one more unforgettable picture of her—the red bathing cap knotted in front, dainty, setting off her dark eyes and her little eager face—the peignoir, carelessly loose, revealing the sweet, frank mould of her figure in the red bathing suit.
“My father and my two brothers gave their lives for England. Do you think I could be so utterly selfish as to grudge my country a week of my husband’s society?”