Free The Alien by Josephine Bell Page A

English?’’
    â€œNo.’’
    â€œBut I thought your friends—’’
    â€œMy friends are friends of the past. My – companion by the river is of the present.’’
    Margrethe looked annoyed.
    â€œI do not understand these riddles,’’ she said, crossly.
    â€œYou do not need to understand.’’
    She laid down her knife and fork.
    â€œPerhaps it is too hot in here after all.’’
    Boris’s hand went out to cover hers.
    â€œThe temperature will go down if we cease to discuss my private affairs.’’
    There was a mild emphasis on the word ‘private’ that made the girl look up at him with a new light in her eyes. Her hand lay still under his and when, a moment later, he took it away she slowly closed her fingers and removed her own hand to her lap where she fumbled with her handbag and eventually produced a handkerchief with which she blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. To anyone who had happened to watch this little scene a lovers’ quarrel had flared and had as quickly died away.
    â€œSo,’’ she said, attacking her meal again. “From the last two letters of this morning?’’
    â€œPerhaps.’’
    â€œI must know the source.’’
    He looked at her thoughtfully. This was a fresh development. The messenger had woken up, showed signs of giving trouble. It was always the same. Ideals, patriotic fervour, invariably dimmed with the first payments, when money shone brighter than those other aims had ever done.
    â€œWhy must you? You are the messenger. It is safer that way.’’
    â€œI am not speaking for myself. It is from higher up. I suppose they begin to doubt.’’
    He frowned. The information, though not of the first importance, had always been useful and patently accurate. Then why doubt?
    â€œI cannot give my source to the messenger.’’
    She sighed. She had been told to expect this reaction. What a bore. Boris was altogether disappointing. He had charm, he had looks, he admired her – but from a distance he alone chose to maintain. That week-end on the river. Some slut he’d picked up. Not even one of his English friends and acquaintances. An unknown – always to remain unknown – without a name she could abuse—
    â€œVery well,’’ she said, carelessly. “As you will. I will arrange a meeting. But not in private, that would be too dangerous for them.’’
    â€œHow then?’’
    â€œThere is an international club I attend. Students, au pair girls, refugees. Many Africans and Eastern races. They belong to the British Commonwealth, but they find the European aliens more better to talk with, more kind.’’
    â€œIt sounds terrible,’’ said Boris simply, with feeling.
    â€œIt is not terrible. It is jolly and perhaps sad. Everyone is happy to meet.’’
    â€œTerrible,’’ Boris repeated.
    â€œI can manage that you meet – a personage – at one of our parties. To him you can give your source as you would to –’’ she lowered her voice and spoke in Swedish, “to the Embassy itself.’’
    Boris nodded. He understood this much, though he could not have held a conversation with her in her own tongue. Soon after they were supplied with coffee and finished their meal discussing tennis. Margrethe was enthusiastic about the game. She played every evening at the local suburban club, she said. Actually it was the club-house that the internationalists borrowed for their weekly meetings. These had to be held late in the evenings at present because play went on so long with summer time. In the winter the meetings had begun at six.
    â€œSo you will come tomorrow, yes?’’
    â€œTomorrow, is it?’’
    â€œAny objection?’’
    He made a play of looking at his diary where he knew the page was blank. Finally he agreed to keep the date, but he did not