She asked him about his home, his people, his ambitions. She had asked
him about these things before, but to-night there was an appeal in her
questions, as though she said:
"Take my mind off that other thing. Help me to forget, if it's only for
a moment."
"Have you ever been in love?" she asked.
"Yes. Once," he said.
"Was he in love now?"
"Yes."
"With some one in Russia?"
"Yes."
She hoped that he would be happy. He told her that he didn't think
happiness was quite the point in this particular case. There were other
things more important--and, anyway, it was inevitable.
"He had fallen in love at first sight?"
"Yes. The very first moment."
She sighed. So had she. It was, she thought, the only real way. She
asked him whether it might not, after all, turn out better than he
expected.
No, he did not think that it could. But he didn't mind how it turned
out--at least he couldn't look that far. The point was that he was in
it, up to the neck, and he was never going to be out of it again.
There was something boyish about that that pleased her. She put her
plump hand on his knee and told him how she had first met the Baron,
down in the South, at Kieff, how grand he had looked; how, seeing her
across a room full of people, he had smiled at her before he had ever
spoken to her or knew her name.
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