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shelve your problem. But I had to get Mother off the subject as soon as possible. You don ’ t know what she is like if she even so much as senses a story about any unknown Englishman abroad. ”
    “ All right, my dear. I suppose it ’ s because of Martin? ”
    “ Yes, of course. ” Celia sighed. “ It ’ s no use expecting her to be reasonable about it, poor darling. His disappearance was the big tragedy of her life, and for years, on and off, she has sought for some explanation, probable or improbable. It ’ s nothing to her that he was last heard of in the Balkans and the family you speak of were in Russia. She somehow sees a connection between the two, and talks about her instinct—which is really very embarrassing. For some while now, she has been much more resigned and calm about it. But anything out of the ordinary and dramatic, like this, starts her imagination working afresh. ”
    “ I ’ m so sorry. ” David spoke with real feeling. “ I ’ m afraid I must have upset her. But I had to tell the story, even though she was there, or else make a ridiculous mystery of it. ”
    “ Of course. Don ’ t worry. ” Celia ’ s smile said that she could forgive him a great deal more than that. “ Only I had to explain. And if she tries to talk to you about it, just put her off, won ’ t you? Very nicely, of course, but firmly. Otherwise you ’ ll find she wants to come to the camp and see—Anya for herself. ”
    She hesitated a fraction of a minute before she said the name, and David had the curious impression that she was reluctant to define the other girl as a personality. Once they began to talk of Anya by her first name, it was hard to keep her in the category of a stranger.
    “ I ’ ll use all my tact, if your mother mentions the subject, ” David promised. “ And of course there is no question of her coming to the camp. I ’ m sure I can make that clear to her. ”
    With this Celia seemed satisfied, and so they talked of other things, and gradually the normality of his usual life closed round David again. But at the back of his mind there persisted—as clearly as though he were looking at a scene on a stage—the picture of the sick Russian leaning slightly towards him and saying,
    “ Anya is not my daughter, Monsieur. She was the daughter of an Englishman. ”
    By a little tactful management on his part (and possibly on Celia ’ s part too) David was able to avoid any private conversation with Mrs. Preston during the rest of the evening. But the following morning, when he came down to breakfast early, she was already sitting in the breakfast room, sipping coffee and absently breaking and buttering a roll.
    She greeted him with an eager smile—reminiscent of Celia, but, inconceivable, of a Celia who was not at all sure of herself—and said,
    “ Come and join me, David. I want to talk to you. ”
    He sat down at her table, with a pleasant word of greeting, and immediately she rushed into speech, as though she felt she had little time in which to tell him what she had to say.
    “ It ’ s about that girl in the camp, ” she explained eagerly. “ Celia thinks I ’ m being rather mad and tiresome, and I daresay you do too, but I have a feeling—one does sometimes, you know, one really does—that there is something tremendously significant about this situation. Please, please don ’ t laugh at me or be angry. ”
    “ I shouldn ’ t dream of doing either, ” David assured her. “ What did you want to say to me about Anya? ”
    “ Only that you must find out who her father was. You see—you see — ” She stopped and looked at David with such pathetic appeal that he felt bound to help her out.
    “ Mrs. Preston, ” he said, very kindly, “ I do understand that whenever you hear of some—shall we say unexplained or unidentified Englishman turning up in Europe, your first idea is that he just might be your lost son, Martin. Is that it? ”
    “ Y-yes. I can ’ t help it, you know.