“Anything.”

“Well, politics are about the same.  They say there’s going to be an awful row in February when the Duma meets—­but then other people say there won’t be a row at all until the war is over.”

“What else do they say?”

“They say Protopopoff is up to all sorts of tricks.  That he says prayers with the Empress and they summon Rasputin’s ghost....  That’s all rot of course.  But he does just what the Empress tells him, and they’re going to enslave the whole country and hand it over to Germany.”

“What will they do that for?” I asked.

“Why, then, the Czarevitch will have it—­under Germany.  They say that none of the munitions are going to the Front, and Protopopoff’s keeping them all to blow up the people here with.”

“What else?” I asked sarcastically.

“No, but really, there’s something in it, I expect.”  Henry looked serious and important.  “Then on the other hand, Clutton-Davies says the Czar’s absolutely all right, dead keen on the war and hates Germany... I don’t know—­but Clutton-Davies sees him nearly every day.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Oh, food’s worse than ever!  Going up every day, and the bread queues are longer and longer.  The Germans have spies in the queues, women who go up and down telling people it’s all England’s fault.”

“And people are just the same?”

“Just the same; Donons’ and the Bear are crowded every day.  You can’t get a table.  So are the cinematographs and the theatres.  I went to the Ballet last night.”

“What was it?”

“’La fille mal gardee’—­Karsavina dancing divinely.  Every one was there.”

This closed the strain of public information.  I led him further.

“Well, Bohun, what about our friends the Markovitches?” I asked.  “How are you getting on there?”

He blushed and looked at his boots.

“All right,” he said.  “They’re very decent.”

Then he burst out with:  “I say, Durward, what do you think of this uncle that’s turned up, the doctor chap?”

“Nothing particular.  Why?”

“You were with him at the Front, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Was he a good doctor?”

“Excellent.”

“He had a love affair at the Front, hadn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And she was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Poor devil....”  Then he added:  “Did he mind very much?”

“Very much.”

“Funny thing, you wouldn’t think he would.”

“Why not,” I asked.

“Oh, he looks a hard sort of fellow—­as though he’d stand anything.  I wouldn’t like to have a row with him.”

“Has he been to the Markovitches much lately?”

“Yes—­almost every evening.”

“What does he do there?”

“Oh, just sits and talks.  Markovitch can’t bear him.  You can see that easily enough.  He teases him.”