Here she saw seated at a table consulting plans of Brussels and other papers a tall, handsome man of early middle age, who might indeed have passed for a young man, had he not looked very tired and care-worn and exhibited a bald patch at the back of his head, rendered the more apparent because the brown-gold curls round it were dank with perspiration.  He rose to his feet, clicked his heels together and saluted.  “An English young lady, I am told, rather ... a ... surprise ... on ... the ... outskirts ... of Brussels...” (His English was excellent, if rather staccato and spaced.) “It ... is ... not ... usual ... for ...  Englishwomen ... to ... be owners ... of chateaux ... in Belgium.  But I ... hear ... it ... is ... your mother ... who is the owner ... from long time, and you are her daughter newly arrived from England?  Nicht wahr?  Sie verstehen nicht Deutsch, gnaediges Fraulein?”

“No,” said Vivie, “I don’t speak much German, and fortunately you speak such perfect English that it is not necessary.”

“I have stayed some time in England,” was the reply; “I was once military attache in London.  Both your voice and your face seem—­what should one say?  Familiar to me.  Are you of London?”

“Yes, I suppose I may say I am a Londoner, though I believe I was born in Brussels.  But I don’t want to beat about the bush:  there is so much to be said and explained, and all this time I am very anxious about my mother.  She is in the hall outside—­feels a little faint I think with shock—­might she—­might I?”—­

“But my dear Miss—?”

“Miss Warren—­”

“My dear Miss Warren, of course.  We are enemies—­pour le moment—­but we Germans are not monsters. ("What about those peasants’ stories?” said Vivie to herself.) Your lady mother must come in here and take that fauteuil.  Then we can talk better at our ease.”

Vivie got up and brought her mother in.

“Now you shall tell me everything—­is it not so?  Better to be quite frank.  A la guerre comme a la guerre.  First, you are English?”

“Yes.  My mother is Mrs. Warren, I am her daughter, Vivien Warren.  My mother has lived many years in Belgium, though also in other places, in Germany, Austria and France.  Of late, however, she has lived entirely here.  This place belongs to her.”

“And you?”

“I?  I have just been released from prison in London, Holloway Prison...”

“My dear young lady!  You are surely joking—­what do you say?  You pull my leg?  But no; I see!  You have been Suffragette.  Aha! I understand you are the Miss Warren, the Miss Warren who make the English Government afraid, nicht wahr?  You set fire to Houses of Parliament...”

Vivie (interrupting):  “No, no!  Only to some racing stables...”

Oberst:  “I understand.  But you are rebel?”

Vivie:  “I hate the present British Government—­the most hypocritical, the most...”