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paraphrase for “Hurry up. You’re late.”) She paused in the middle of combing her hair at the memory of Uncle Edward’s way of pronouncing “Matthews.” He pronounced it like every foreigner, stumbling over the impossible combination of th, and giving it more of the French sound of “Mathieu.” Only Mr. Stevens had said it the exactly correct way. Only Mr. Stevens—and Mr. Johann Hofmeyer. Perhaps he had lived for years in England or America. Why worry about a detail like that anyway? There was more to think about at the moment.
    Nevertheless, the thought of Hofmeyer prompted her to search in her coat pocket. She studied the small bundle of clipped papers, looking curiously at the tickets which would enable her to leave for Britain. But there was something else beside the tickets and the regulations on air travel. There was a sheet of paper with elaborate printing. Kotowitz. The Old Square, Number 31 . That was the heading. Underneath was the legend: Importer and Exporter . Under that: Finest Table Delicacies . Then came very small type at the foot of the announcement, which told you that Johann Hofmeyer was the present proprietor, that enquiries would receive full and prompt attention, that the telephone number was 5-7177. The wholeannouncement was repeated in three other languages: German, English, French. Mr. Hofmeyer’s business was an expansive one. For a moment Sheila wondered. And then she jammed all the papers back in her pocket. No doubt the advertising sheet was only included to prove Mr. Hofmeyer’s identity. She would present it to Uncle Matthews as a souvenir from an obliging business connection.
    In the hall, Stevens was still phoning. He was leaning on an elbow against the wall, a pencil in one hand tapping impatiently, a long-suffering look in his eyes. Someone must have spoken at last, for he suddenly stopped lounging and he was listening intently.
    In the living-room, the desk lamp with its pleated pink silk shade gave a soft light which left the bookcases, lining three walls in darkness. In the fourth wall was the large window, at which Professor Korytowski was nailing up, with more determination than skill, a large sheet of black cloth. From a chair beside the desk, with its periodicals and offprints and papers now neatly arranged and neglected, a small thin man with glasses, a fading hair-line and a sardonic smile was talking steadily. At the man’s elbow was an ugly little box of a radio, muted so as not to interfere unduly with the conversation.
    Professor Korytowski abandoned his labours, and introduced the strange man, who had risen to his feet and was watching Sheila keenly. His name was Michal Olszak.
    “We’ve been talking of the old days, which is one of the few escapes left us from the present,” Korytowski said. “Now do sit down, and we’ll wait until Mr. Stevens finishes verifying the airplane time.”
    Sheila sat quietly, and tried to listen to a conversation whichhad now switched, for her benefit, to the most recent news. But she was wondering if Mr. Olszak had seen as much danger as Edward Korytowski had in the “old days.” That phrase meant the Polish fight for freedom during the last war; and then the continued fight for Polish boundaries after 1919, when the rest of the world relaxed into peace and forgot Poland; and then the establishing of a liberal regime. Edward Korytowski had been in the short-lived government. He had “retired” with Paderewski and Sikorski and the other liberals. In his disappointment, he had given up politics completely. Well, if Professor Korytowski said they were talking about the old days, then he and Mr. Olszak had indeed been talking about them. So much, Sheila thought, for the strange feeling she had had, as she entered the room, that they had been talking about her. What she needed, she told herself wryly, was not two months, but two years, submerging her personality into a family like the Aleksanders. Then she’d be less of an