And she sighed.

“Things look black enough, Des,” she went on.  “Maybe you and I won’t get the chance of another chat like this again and that’s why I’m going to tell you something I have never told anybody else.  I am only telling you so as you will know that, whatever happens, you will always find in me an ally in your search ... though, tied as I am, I scarcely think I can ever help you much.

“Your brother wanted me to marry him.  I liked him better than anybody else I had ever met ... or have ever met since, for that matter....  Daddy was dead, I was absolutely free to please myself, so no difficulties stood in the way.  But your brother was proud ... his pride was greater than his love for me, I told him when we parted ... and he wouldn’t hear of marriage until he had made himself independent, though I had enough for both of us.  He wanted me to wait a year or two until he had got his business started properly, but his pride angered me and I wouldn’t.

“So we quarrelled and I went abroad with Mrs. Rushwood.  Francis never wrote:  all I heard about him was an occasional scrap in your letters.  Mrs. Rushwood was crazy about titles, and she ran me round from court to court, always looking for what she called a suitable pari for me.  At Vienna we met Rachwitz ... he was very good looking and very well mannered and seemed to be really fond of me.

“Well, I gave Francis another chance.  I wrote him a friendly letter and told him about Rachwitz wanting to marry me and asked his advice.  He wrote me back a beastly letter, a wicked letter, Des.  ’Any girl who is fool enough to sell herself for a title,’ he said, ’richly deserves a German husband.’  What do you think of that?”

“Poor old Francis,” I said.  “He was terribly fond of you, Monica!”

“Well, his letter did it.  I married Rachwitz ... and have been miserable ever since.  I’m not going to bore you with a long story about my matrimonial troubles.  No!  I’m not going to cry either!  I’m not crying!  Karl is not a bad man, as German men go, and he’s a gentleman, but his love affairs and his drunken parties and his attitude of mind towards me ... it was so utterly different to everything I had been used to.  Then you know, I left him....”

“But, Monica,” I exclaimed, “what are you doing here then?”

She sighed wearily.

“I’m a German by marriage, Des,” she said, “you can’t get away from that.  My husband’s country ... my country ... is at war and the wives must play their part, wherever their heart is.  Karl never asked me to come back, I’ll give him the credit for that.  I came of my own accord because I felt my place was here.  So I go round to needlework parties and sewing bees and Red Cross matinees and try to be civil to the German women and listen to their boasting and bragging about their army, their hypocrisy about Belgium, their vilification of the best friends Daddy and I ever had, you English!  But doing my duty by my husband does not forbid me to help my friends when they are in danger.  That’s why you can count on me, Des.”