I have found out nothing about her beyond the fact that she has
travelled all over Europe. I don't even know how old she is, but I
should guess twenty-six.
I tried to find out a few details by means of discreet remarks at the
Club and elsewhere.
She simply arrived here about a year ago--as a singer, and met the
Colonel--beyond that, all is mystery. Everything about her attracts me
powerfully, and this mystery adds subtleties to her charms.
This afternoon I went to say good-bye; I told her we were leaving
"shortly," and she gently reproved me for disobeying the order which
forbids discussion of movements, but I could see she was not greatly
displeased.
After tea she played to me, music of the modern Russian
school--Arensky, Sibelius and Pilsuki; a storm was brewing and we both
felt sad.
She played for an hour or so, and then came and sat by me on a low
divan by the fire. We were silent for a long while in the gathering
gloom, whilst a thousand thoughts chased each other swiftly through my
brain, as I endeavoured to summon up courage to say what I had
determined I must say before I left her, perhaps for ever.
At last, when only her profile was visible against the glow of the
logs, I spoke.
I told her quietly, calmly and almost dispassionately that I had grown
to love her and that to me she was life itself. I told her that I had
tried not to speak until I could endure no longer.
She sat very still as I spoke, and when I had finished there was a long
silence and I gently stretched out my hand and stroked her lovely black
hair.
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