Free White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell

Porson’s flat and over a drink discussed the problem anew before they went their ways to bed.
    â€œI think the omens are good,” said the lanky young diplomat with a solemnity and deliberation much heightened by the whisky he had drunk. “Dashed good. We shall probably all get gongs in the New Year Honours List. I shall pass over the head of Marriot into a fine post as Counsellor. What will you choose, Methuen?”
    â€œMy pension and a small flat in London,” said Methuen who was apt to take things literally. “But,” he added lamely, “I could have had either these ten years.”
    â€œAh!” said Porson pointing a scraggy finger. “You are a work mystic. You cannot stop working. Must go on. You will end with ulcers and a knighthood.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Methuen with a twinkle. “I wouldn’t mind that either.” All of a sudden he felt an immense weariness as he thought of the hills outside there, in the heart of Serbia, with their secret; he heard the echo of the rivers as they bored their way through the gorges, throwing up spray. How beautiful a place it was! Yet sudden death might lurk at every corner. “Me for bed,” he said, though he was unwilling to leave the comfortable arm-chair.
    That night Carter was surprised and somewhat touched to find him kneeling by his bed in prayer, dressed in his coarse, faded woollen pyjamas with the brown stripe. “I just came in to see that you were all right,” he said apologetically. “Yes,” said Methuen. “I was just saying my prayers. Always have done it since I was a child. I never sleep well if I don’t.”
    â€œPrayers!” said Carter to himself, getting into bed and switching off the light. “Well, he’ll need some prayers where he’s going.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The Picture Gallery

    T he morning dawned fine, and Mr. Judson permitted himself the luxury of an early morning bathe in the river before breakfast, driving out in Carter’s car to a point beyond the town. Carter himself lay in bed making incoherent noises and refused to share in this exploit, and it must be admitted that he showed little shame when Judson reappeared at the breakfast-table to crack his egg with an air of triumphant virtue. “I’m not as badly out of condition as I thought,” he told his host. “I swam about a mile on a very tough current.” Carter shook his head: “After forty, my dear chap,” he said, “one must play safe. Or one springs a sprocket. Early rising is for the young.”
    â€œWhen were you forty?” asked Mr. Judson.
    â€œTwo years from now,” said Carter.
    They drove to the Embassy in great good humour and once more Mr. Judson locked himself in with the account books—which he handled for all the world as if they were rare, and slightly disgusting palimpsests. Somehow the thought of meeting Vida had displaced his preoccupation with the Serbian folksongs; she might offer him the clue to them and save him further cogitation. He whistled softly to himself as he copied out those which had been repeated. Even the Ambassador, it seemed, was in a good humour. There was a little note on his desk which he opened with some surprise, marvelling at the fine lacework of the handwriting on the envelope: “My dear Colonel,” he read, “nothing would have pleased me better than to have you to a meal despite the view I take of your mission here. Nevertheless since you are masquerading as a clerk I feel it would be bad policy to draw you into the limelight by inviting you to my table. I trust you will not mistake discretion for churlishness.”
    â€œVery decent of him,” said Methuen, “considering.”
    He showed the letter to Porson who chuckled and said: “Maybe he has discovered that you fish.”
    â€œBy the way: this rendezvous—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCan I borrow your