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presently Herr Leibowitz strolled through, ostensibly to put his songs in order, but actually to

look for Liese. He sheered off when he saw the long-legged Denton lounging in the next chair.

Liese nodded to him and said, “That’s him.”

“Who? Your tame linnet?”

The two men looked each other up and down as Waltheof walked out, and Denton said,

“Umf. I’ve seen things like him at agricultural shows. In pens, with a rosette on their curly top-

knots. He reminds me of a polled Angus.”

“But he sings much better,” said Liese.

Next day she brought a pile of magazines into Denton’s room to amuse him while she

went for a walk, and among them was a photograph, signed “With homage from Waltheof

Leibowitz.” Denton found it when he was alone, and seethed within.

“The blue-nosed, hairy baboon! Not that I’m jealous, of course, the girl’s nothing to me,

but she’s a nice kid and I won’t see her being made a fool of by a fat Austrian crooner, blast him!

He’s no good to her, probably regards her as a passing amusement. She’d better go home to her

father.”

However, when Liese came in he did not refer to the photograph, nor suggest her

returning to Berlin. Instead, he came down to tea, and Waltheof sang, “Ah, can it ever be, That I

must part from thee.” In spite of friendly overtures from several kind ladies who thought the tall

languid young man such an interesting invalid, Denton said he was tired and went to bed early.

No, he didn’t want to be read to, thank you. On the following afternoon he tapped at Liese’s door

to borrow their mutual ink, and found her looking through a little pile of gramophone records.

“Hullo,” he said, “been shopping?”

“No, I had these given to me, they’re Waltheof’s. Look, here’s ‘Im Monat Mai.’ It’s a

lovely one.”

“Oh. When did you hear it?”

“On his gramophone, last night.”

“Did you go to his room to hear it?”

“Why not? I had nobody else to talk to.”

“I see.”

He fidgeted about the room.

“You didn’t stay so late as one might have expected, did you? Thought I heard you come

up rather early.”

“No, I—I didn’t stay long.”

“Why not?”

“Well, if you must know, he kissed the nape of my neck and I didn’t like it.”

“He did, did he? Well, if you will ask for that kind of thing, my girl, you’ll probably get

it.”

Denton stalked into his own room and slammed the door.

!t was a peaceful scene in the lounge of Albrecht’s Privat Hotel at tea-time. There was a

cheerful clink of tea-cups, the orchestra played a selection from “L’Arlesienne” above a subdued

but happy chatter, which was only stilled when Waltheof strolled to the front of the platform.

The pianist struck a few preliminary chords, and at the same moment the swing door of the

lounge opened, and Denton entered.

Waltheof did not notice this. He clasped his hands lightly in front of him, fixed his eyes

soulfully on Liese Weber, and began, “Im Monat Mai.”

Denton walked delicately between the tables till he was face to face with the singer, when

he stopped, and so did the song.

“I’ll teach you to remember the month of May, you pie-faced choirboy,” he drawled, and

landed the unhappy Waltheof a jolt to the jaw, sending him flying into the grand piano, which

complained with a long singing noise. Denton, completely unhurried in the excitement,

wandered across to Liese’s table and said, “Come on upstairs, we’d better start packing.”

“Packing—”

“Come on,” he said, and she got up and followed meekly.

“Did you see that girl’s face as she went out?” said one elderly lady to another.

“Outrageous little minx! I believe she was laughing.”

In the cab on their way to the station, Liese said, “Where are we going?”

“To Paris, of course, Lieschen. Good heavens, I’ve forgotten something.”

“What, d-dear?”

“I meant to send your father a picture-postcard of the hotel—in six colours.”

They had a rush to catch the train, and, of course, they had no reservations, so it was

necessary to resign themselves to spending the night in an ordinary railway carriage till they

arrived in Paris at three in the morning.

“But why are we going to Paris, Char-les?”

“Charles.”

“Charles. Why are we going to Paris?”

“Because it’s the nearest place I know where I can marry you.”

“
Herr Gott!
Suppose I don’t want to?”

“If you don’t now, you will when you’ve known me another seven hours.”

“Who told you that, lordly one?”

“My unconquerable soul,” said Denton magnificently. “Come and—no. We are not

married yet, so I’ll approach you. I want to sit next you, not opposite.”

“Shall I have to come when I’m called if I marry you?”

“Running.”

“Oh. Just like living with Father,” she said in a flat voice.

“Not in the least like living with Father—”

“‘Liese! Fetch my slippers!’”

“A very good idea, but—”

“‘Liese! Fill my pipe!’”

“I wouldn’t trust you to. It’s a fine art—”

“I have acquired it, sir. ‘Liese! Bring the beer!’”

“Better and better. In fact, better and bitter. I always knew I was a good picker, but you

exceed expectations.”

“‘Liese! Bring me the English
Times
!’”

“Does your father read that?”

“Yes. He says that when he was a schoolboy he learned English, and reading the English

Times
is the best way to keep it up.”

“I dare say he’s right. Can you speak English, Liese?”

“A little,” she said. “I read it quite easily, but to speak it is much more difficult. Father

made me learn poetry,” said Liese, and quoted:

“‘
To be
,
or not to be
,
that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
—’

That is by Shakespeare, but it is very hard to say. There were some other things Father

taught me that I like better. Do you understand English, Charles? Then listen to this:

‘
So through the strong and salty days
,

The tinkling silence thrills

Where little lost Down churches praise

The Lord who made the hills
.’

Father says that there are some hills called Downs in England. Father has been there I am

sure, though he never talks about it. Have you ever been in England, Charles?”

“Listen to me, my darling. You’re going to marry me to-morrow, God help you, and you

don’t know the first thing about me. I am English, Lieschen.”

She looked at him with round eyes and parted lips.

“My name is not Dedler, it is Denton. Charles Denton. So you will be Mrs. Denton, not

Frau Dedler. D’you mind?”

“Charles.”

“Yes?”

“Was it very dangerous for you, being in Germany?”

“Not at all,” he lied stoutly. “Whatever makes you think that?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Father had so many queer people come to see him—”

“Including me?”

“Yes, dear. They used to talk in that little room at the back of the shop with the doors and

window shut, just as you did. I never did believe they all sold pipes or tobacco. I think there was

something funny about Father, too.”

“‘All the world is queer, dear,’” quoted Denton in English, “‘excepting thee and me, dear,

and even thee’s a little queer, dear!’”

“You see,” she said, refusing to be put off, “Father’s a good Nazi, and goes to meetings

and things and pays all his subscriptions, but sometimes they come into the shop and talk about

how wonderful they all are, and when they’ve gone he looks amused. I don’t think the Nazis

would amuse a real Nazi, would they?”

“You notice too much. Tell me,” he went on in a serious tone, “have you ever spoken of

this to anyone else?”

“Never. And I wouldn’t to you, only you’re English.”

“That’s right. Don’t talk about it at all, even to me.”

“Why not?”

“Somebody might overhear you. Let’s talk about something else now, shall we?”

“Is it as serious as all that?”

“Yes, quite.”

She nodded understandingly, and presently her eyebrows went up. “Isn’t it funny?”

“What is?”

“To think that this time to-morrow I shall be an Englishwoman.”

The corners of Denton’s mouth twitched, but all he said was, “An Englishwoman who’s

never seen England. Well, we’ll go straight on there and look at it. Are you—aren’t you—”

“What?”

“Aren’t you really just the least bit scared?”

“Why?”

“It’s a long way from home.”

“Home is where you are,
liebchen
,” she said. “So long as you’re there it will be quite

safe. You won’t leave me, will you?”

“Not more than I can help, my darling. But even if I do, Liese—”

“Even if you must, Charles, what then?”

“Even then, it will still be quite all right, because my heart stays in your little hands,

Lieschen, my wife—”

The train slowed down and stopped at Strasbourg, and Denton promptly got up and

spread their luggage all over the unoccupied seats of the compartment.

“What’s that for, darling?”

“So that people shall think all the seats are taken and we can keep the place to ourselves,”

said the true-born Englishman. “Try and look as though the stuff didn’t belong to you.”

Liese wrinkled up her nose and glanced disdainfully at three suit-cases, a hatbox, and two

brown-paper parcels, one of them flat.

“Is that the right expression? Oh, but the gramophone records are mine!”

“Feathers from the pet canary.”

“He was really very nice, and it was very wrong of you to hit him so hard.”

“But it did me such a lot of good,” said Denton plaintively, “my head hasn’t ached

since.”

“I think it was horrid of you, Charles. Are you often violent like that?”

“Whenever the moon is full on a Thursday, I grin like a dog and run through the city

banging people over the head with lengths of lead piping. Why?”

“Why, indeed,” said Liese.

“Oh, just to release my inhibitions. Cheers, the train is moving off and nobody has got in

here. See what a clever husband you’re going to have, dozens of people looked in at the window

and all went peaceably away again, it always works.”

A shadow darkened the door into the corridor, and a tall old man with a thick brush of

hair entered apologetically.

“I beg a thousand pardons, but could you tell me if all these seats are taken? The rest of

the train is so—”

The carriage lurched violently over the points, the old gentleman staggered, clutched at

the rack and missed it, and sat down heavily on the flat parcel. Denton let out a yell of delight.

“God bless my soul,” said the agitated stranger in English. “What have I done?”

“A noble deed, believe me,” said Denton in the same language, “yet one which I should

not, myself, have dared. Waltheof’s voice is cracked.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The canary has gone off song.”

“Dear me,” said the old gentleman, gathering up his umbrella and a music-case he had

dropped, and making for the door. “How very distressing. I think I—”

“Please don’t go away,” said Denton, controlling himself. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I

get like that occasionally. They are gramophone records in that parcel.”

“Are they, perhaps, your wife’s?” asked the stranger, with a bow to Liese. “I could, no

doubt, replace them.”

“She’s not my wife yet, but she will be as soon as we get to Paris.”

“God bless my soul. May I wish you many years of happiness?”

“
Danke schön
,” said Liese, her English deserting her. “
Sie sind sehr gütig
.”

“Thanks awfully,” drawled Denton, “please inaugurate them by not replacing the records.

I shall get the bird for that, I expect, but I prefer it to the other bird.”

Liese made a face at him, and the old gentleman said, “Some secret, evidently. May I sit

here?”

“I do beg your pardon,” said Denton, springing up. “Please. Let me remove our truck.”

He opened the window, and with a simple gesture hurled the records far into the night.

“I’ll go and fetch my violin, if I may,” said the stranger. “I cannot allow it to travel in the

van.” When he returned he introduced himself. “My name is Ogilvie, and I am a third-rate

fiddler.”

“I doubt the adjective,” said Denton, looking at the long sensitive fingers. “This is

Fräulein Elisabeth Weber, and I’m Charles Denton.”

“Have you come far to-day?”

“Only from Basle.”

“I have had two days in Strasbourg,” said Ogilvie, “but before that I was in Rome. My

nephew gave a recital there on Monday, and another in Strasbourg last night. In fact, we have

made quite a tour, but he is staying a few days with friends while tiresome business calls me

home.”

“I am completely uncultured,” said Denton, “but somehow the name of Ogilvie suggests

music to me.”

“You are thinking of my nephew, Dixon Ogilvie, who is a pianist. He is—well, rather

famous.”

“Dixon Ogilvie.”

“Perhaps you have heard him somewhere. I have here,” Ogilvie rummaged in his music-

case, “a programme with his photograph upon it, here it is.”

“Has he played in Berlin, sir?” asked Liese in her careful English. Miranda calls Prospero

“sir,” and Shakespeare must know.