et this
subject of the war was the one which he, as an invader, considered
himself bound to avoid.

"We do forget it at tea, don't we?" he asked.

"At least we need not speak of it!" she replied.

Safely, then, at first, their conversation ran not on the present but on
an intimate past, free of any possible bumpers. The train of memories
once started, she herself gave it speed if it stopped at a way station;
cargo if it went empty. Prone to avoid recollections that made him feel
old--to feel old was to be out of date in his profession---he found
these livening with the youth of thirty-two and gratifying as youth's
dreams become reality. Feeling as young as a colonel, he had the
consciousness of being chief of staff. This was enough to make any
soldier enjoy the place and the company and to drink his tea slowly so
as to prolong the recess from duty. His second cup growing cold, he was
reminded of the value of time, and with a playfully reproachful look at
Marta he put a warning finger of conscience on the papers that lay
beside the bread plate.

"There's work--always work for a chief!" he declared. "I--"

Marta was quick to act on the hint. Her hands flew to the arms of her
chair as she spoke.

"There's always the garden for me! But first--" Yes, first there was
poor Hugo.

Westerling flushed guiltily that she should have taken his words as a
hint, which was only half of his emotion. The other half shot out his
hand in a restraining, companionable touch on her forearm, while his
eyes--his calculating gray eyes--glinted a youthful entreaty.

"Please! I didn't finish my sentence!" he begged. "You remember that
often I used to wait after tea until the sunset--"

"And reached your quarters late for dinner, I also remember!" she put
in. But she remained in the same position, his finger-tips on her arm,
her hands holding her body free of the chair. "That is, when you did not
stay to dinner!" she added.

"I am staying to-night. I was going to ask if you wouldn't remain on the
veranda while I go over these papers. It--it would be very cosey and
pleasant."

One of these papers, she knew, must be the evidence against Hugo Mallin.
She preferred not to make a direct appeal but to have Westerling bring
up the subject himself. His smile and the look with which he regarded
her spoke his appreciation of the picture she made and his fear of
losing it. Very cosey and pleasant, yes, the company of a prophetess,
with a ray of