“Then where do you think he is now?”
“Anywhere, except in Poland. It was the last place he had any intention of going to.”
“He might have written you a false account of his movements,” Olifant argued, “but why should he have deceived this good Polish gentleman?”
“It’s his way,” she replied wearily. “Oh, don’t you see? He’s always acting to himself. He can’t help leading a fictitious life. I can guess the whole thing. He goes to this Mr. Boronowski—one of his stray Russo-Polish acquaintances—with the idea in his head of putting me off his scent. Poland still is romantic and a terribly long way off. He can’t do a thing simply. He must do it fantastically. It’s not enough that I should think he was going to Poland. Mr. Boronowski must think so, too. He throws his arms about, persuading himself and everybody else that he is a Paladin going to fight for the sacred cause of an oppressed nationality. When the thing’s done, and the letter to me written, the curtain comes down on the comedy, and Alexis takes off his war paint and starts off for Pernambuco—or Haverstock Hill.”
“I think you’re unjust, Olivia,” said Olifant.
“And I think you’re too good to be true,” she retorted angrily, and she left him and went down the garden path into the house.
In her room, her mother’s room, with the old rose curtains and Chippendale and water colours, she rang the bell. Myra appeared.
“You know so much already, Myra,” she said in her defiant way, “that I think you ought to know everything. I’ve just heard that Mr. Triona never went to Poland.”
“Indeed?” said Myra impassively. “Do you know where he is?”
“No. And I don’t want to.”