And Triona, who for months had foreseen such a reasonable proposal, replied:
“I wish we could. I’ve been dreaming of it for a long time. In fact—I didn’t tell you—but I went to the Foreign Office a fortnight ago.”
She wrinkled her brow.
“What’s the Foreign Office got to do with it?”
“They happen to regard me as an exceptional man, my dearest,” said he. “I’m still in the Secret Service. I tried last summer to get out of it—but they overpersuaded me, promising not to worry me unduly. One can’t refuse to serve one’s country at a pinch, can one?”
“No. But why didn’t you tell me?”
She felt hurt at being left out in the cold. She also had a sudden fear of the elusiveness of this husband of hers, hero of so many strange adventures and interests that years would not suffice for their complete revelation. She remembered the dug-up Vronsky romance, in itself one that might supply the ordinary human being with picturesque talk for a lifetime. And now she resented this continued association with the Foreign Office which he thought he had severed on his return from Finland.
“I never imagined they would want me again, after what I told them. But it seems they do. You know the state of things in Russia. Well—they may send me or they may not. At any rate, for the next few months I am not to leave the country.”
“I call that idiotic,” cried Olivia indignantly. “They could get at you in Paris just as easily as they could in London.”
“They’ve got the whip hand, confound them,” replied Triona. “They grant or refuse passports.”