CHAPTER TWENTY - November to December 1916
Ethel Williams anxiously scanned the casualty list in the newspaper. There were several Williamses, but no Corporal William Williams of the Welsh Rifles. With a silent prayer of thanks she folded the paper, handed it to Bernie Leckwith, and put the kettle on for cocoa.
She could not be sure Billy was alive. He might have been killed in the last few days or hours. She was haunted by the memory of Telegram Day in Aberowen, and the women's faces twisted with fear and grief, faces that would carry forever the cruel marks of the news heard that day. She was ashamed of herself for feeling glad Billy was not among the dead.
The telegrams had kept coming to Aberowen. The battle of the Somme did not end on that first day. Throughout July, August, September, and October the British army threw its young soldiers across no-man's-land to be mown down by machine guns. Again and again the newspapers hailed a victory, but the telegrams told another story.
Bernie was in Ethel's kitchen, as he was most evenings. Little Lloyd was fond of "Uncle" Bernie. Usually he sat on Bernie's lap, and Bernie read aloud to him from the newspaper. The child had little idea what the words meant but he seemed to like it anyway. Tonight, however, Bernie was on edge, for some reason, and paid no attention to Lloyd.
Mildred from upstairs came in carrying a teapot. "Lend us a spoonful of tea, Eth," she said.
"Help yourself, you know where it is. Do you want a cup of cocoa instead?"
"No, thanks, cocoa makes me fart. Hello, Bernie, how's the revolution?"
Bernie looked up from the paper, smiling. He liked Mildred. Everyone did. "The revolution is slightly delayed," he said.
Mildred put tea leaves into her pot. "Any word from Billy?"
"Not lately," Ethel said. "You?"
"Not for a couple of weeks."
Ethel picked up the post from the hall floor in the morning, so she knew that Mildred received frequent letters from Billy. Ethel presumed they were love letters: why else would a boy write to his sister's lodger? Mildred apparently returned Billy's feelings: she asked regularly for news of him, assuming a casual air that failed to mask her anxiety.
Ethel liked Mildred, but she wondered whether Billy at eighteen was ready to take on a twenty-three-year-old woman and two stepchildren. True, Billy had always been extraordinarily mature and responsible for his age. And he might be a few years older before the war ended. Anyway, all Ethel wanted was for him to come home alive. After that, nothing mattered much.
Ethel said: "His name's not on the list of casualties in today's paper, thank God."
"I wonder when he'll get leave."
"He's only been gone five months."
Mildred put down the teapot. "Ethel, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"I'm thinking of going out on my own-as a seamstress, I mean."
Ethel was surprised. Mildred was the supervisor now at Mannie Litov's, so she was earning a better wage.
Mildred went on: "I've got a friend who can get me work trimming hats-putting on the veils, ribbons, feathers, and beads. It's skilled work and it pays a lot better than sewing uniforms."
"Sounds great."
"Only thing is, I'd have to work at home, at least at first. Long-term, I'd like to employ other girls and get a small place."
"You're really looking ahead!"
"Got to, haven't you? When the war's over they won't want no more uniforms."
"True."
"So you wouldn't mind me using upstairs as my workshop, for a while?"
"Of course not. Good luck to you!"
"Thanks." Impulsively she kissed Ethel's cheek, then she picked up the teapot and went out.
Lloyd yawned and rubbed his eyes. Ethel lifted him up and put him to bed in the front room. She watched him fondly for a minute or two as he drifted into sleep. As always, his helplessness tugged at her heart. It will be a better world when you grow up, Lloyd, she promised silently. We'll make sure of that.
When she returned to the kitchen, she tried to draw Bernie out of his mood. "There should be more books for children," she said.
He nodded. "I'd like every library to have a little section of children's books." He spoke without looking up from the paper.
"Perhaps if you librarians do that it will encourage the publishers to bring out more."
"That's what I'm hoping."
Ethel put more coal on the fire and poured cocoa for them both. It was unusual for Bernie to be withdrawn. Normally she enjoyed these cozy evenings. They were two outsiders, a Welsh girl and a Jew, not that there was any scarcity of Welsh people or Jews in London. Whatever the reason, in the two years she had been living in London he had become a close friend, along with Mildred and Maud.
She had an idea what was on his mind. Last night a bright young speaker from the Fabian Society had addressed the local Labour Party on the subject of "postwar socialism." Ethel had argued with him and he had obviously been rather taken with her. After the meeting he had flirted with her, even though everyone knew he was married, and she had enjoyed the attention, not taking it at all seriously. But perhaps Bernie was jealous.
She decided to leave him to be quiet if that was what he wanted. She sat at the kitchen table and opened a large envelope full of letters written by men on the front line. Readers of The Soldier's Wife sent their husbands' letters to the paper, which paid a shilling for each one published. They gave a truer picture of life at the front than anything in the mainstream press. Most of The Soldier's Wife was written by Maud, but the letters had been Ethel's idea and she edited that page, which had become the paper's most popular feature.
She had been offered a better-paid job, as a full-time organizer for the National Union of Garment Workers, but she had turned it down, wanting to stay with Maud and continue campaigning.
She read half a dozen letters, then sighed and looked at Bernie. "You would think people would turn against the war," she said.
"But they haven't," he replied. "Look at the results of that election."
Last month in Ayrshire there had been a by-election-a ballot in a single constituency, caused by the death of the sitting member of Parliament. The Conservative, Lieutenant-General Hunter-Weston, who had fought at the Somme, had been opposed by a Peace candidate, Reverend Chalmers. The army officer had won overwhelmingly, 7,149 votes to 1,300.
"It's the newspapers," Ethel said with frustration. "What can our little publication do to promote peace, against the propaganda put out by the bloody Northcliffe press?" Lord Northcliffe, a gung-ho militarist, owned The Times and the Daily Mail.
"It's not just the newspapers," Bernie said. "It's the money."
Bernie paid a lot of attention to government finance, which was odd in a man who had never had more than a few shillings. Ethel saw an opportunity to bring him out of his mood, and said: "What do you mean?"
"Before the war, our government used to spend about half a million pounds a day on everything-the army, courts and prisons, education, pensions, running the colonies, everything."
"So much!" She smiled at him affectionately. "That's the kind of statistic my father always knew."
He drank his cocoa, then said: "Guess how much we spend now."
"Double that? A million a day? It sounds impossible."
"You're nowhere near. The war costs five million pounds a day. That's ten times the normal cost of running the country."
Ethel was shocked. "Where does the money come from?"
"That's the problem. We borrow it."
"But the war has been going on for more than two years. We must have borrowed... nearly four thousand million pounds!"
"Something like that. Twenty-five years' normal expenditure."
"How will we ever pay it back?"
"We can never pay it back. A government that tried to bring in taxes sufficient to repay the loan would cause a revolution."
"So what will happen?"
"If we lose the war, our creditors-mainly Americans-will go bankrupt. And if we win, we'll make the Germans pay. 'Reparations' is the word they use."
"How will they manage it?"
"They will starve. But nobody cares what happens to the losers. Anyway, the Germans did the same to the French in 1871." He stood up and put his cup in the kitchen sink. "So you see why we can't make peace with Germany. Who then would pay the bill?"
Ethel was aghast. "And so we have to keep sending boys to die in the trenches. Because we can't pay the bill. Poor Billy. What a wicked world we live in."
"But we're going to change it."
I hope so, Ethel thought. Bernie believed it would take a revolution. She had read about the French Revolution and knew that such things did not always turn out the way people intended. All the same, she was determined that Lloyd would have a better life.
They sat in silence for a while, then Bernie stood up. He went to the door, as if to leave, then changed his mind. "That speaker last night was interesting."
"Aye," she said.
"Clever, too."
"Yes, he was clever."
Bernie sat down again. "Ethel... two years ago you told me you wanted friendship, not romance."
"I was very sorry to hurt your feelings."
"Don't be sorry. Our friendship is the best thing that ever happened to me."
"I like it too."
"You said I'd soon forget all that lovey-dovey stuff, and we would just be pals. But you were wrong." He leaned forward in his chair. "As I've got to know you better, I've just come to love you more than ever."
Ethel could see the yearning in his eyes, and she felt desperately sorry that she could not return his feelings. "I'm very fond of you, too," she said. "But not in that way."
"What's the point of being alone? We like each other. We're such a good team! We have the same ideals, the same aims in life, similar opinions-we belong together."
"There's more to marriage than that."
"I know. And I long to take you in my arms." He moved his arm, as if about to reach out and touch her, but she crossed her legs and turned aside in her chair. He withdrew his hand, and a bitter smile twisted his usually amiable expression. "I'm not the handsomest man you've ever met. But I believe no one has ever loved you as I do."
He was right about that, she reflected sadly. Many men had fancied her, and one had seduced her, but none had shown the patient devotion of Bernie. If she married him she could be sure it would be forever. And somewhere in her soul she longed for that.
Sensing her hesitation, Bernie said: "Marry me, Ethel. I love you. I'll spend my life making you happy. It's all I want."
Did she need a man at all? She was not unhappy. Lloyd was a constant joy, with his stumbling walk, his attempts at speech, and his boundless curiosity. He was enough for her.
Bernie said: "Little Lloyd needs a father."
That gave her a pang of guilt. Bernie was already playing that role part-time. Should she marry Bernie for Lloyd's sake? It was not too late for him to start calling Bernie "Daddy."
It would mean giving up what little hope she had left of finding again the overwhelming passion she had felt with Fitz. She still suffered a spasm of longing when she thought about it. But, she asked herself, trying to think objectively despite her feelings, what did I get out of that love affair? I was disappointed by Fitz, rejected by my family, and exiled to another country. Why would I want that again?
Hard as she struggled, she could not bring herself to accept Bernie's proposal. "Let me think," she said.
He beamed. Clearly that was a more positive answer than he had dared to hope for. "Think as long as you want," he said. "I'll wait."
She opened the front door. "Good night, Bernie."
"Good night, Ethel." He leaned forward and she gave him her cheek to kiss. His lips lingered a moment on her skin. She drew back immediately. He caught her wrist. "Ethel... "
"Sleep well, Bernie," she said.
He hesitated, then nodded. "You, too," he said, and he went out.
{II}
On election night in November 1916, Gus Dewar thought his career in politics had come to an end.
He was in the White House, fielding phone calls and passing messages to President Wilson, who was at Shadow Lawn, the new summer White House in New Jersey, with his second wife, Edith. Papers were sent from Washington to Shadow Lawn every day by the U.S. Postal Service, but sometimes the president needed to get the news faster.
By nine o'clock that evening it was clear that the Republican, a Supreme Court justice called Charles Evans Hughes, had won four swing states: New York, Indiana, Connecticut, and New Jersey.
But the reality did not hit Gus until a messenger brought him the early editions of the New York newspapers and he saw the headline:
PRESIDENT-ELECT HUGHES
He was shocked. He thought Woodrow Wilson was winning. Voters had not forgotten Wilson's deft handling of the Lusitania crisis: he had managed to get tough with the Germans while at the same time staying neutral. Wilson's campaign slogan was: "He kept us out of war."
Hughes had accused Wilson of failing to prepare America for war, but this had backfired. Americans were more determined than ever to remain nonaligned after Britain's brutal suppression of the Easter Rising in Dublin. Britain's treatment of the Irish was no better than Germany's treatment of the Belgians, so why should America take sides?
When he had read the papers Gus loosened his tie and napped on the couch in the study next to the Oval Office. He was unnerved by the prospect of leaving the White House. Working for Wilson had become his bedrock. His love life was a train wreck, but at least he knew he was valuable to the president of the United States.
His concern was not just selfish. Wilson was determined to create an international order in which wars could be avoided. Just as next-door neighbors no longer settled boundary disputes with six-guns, so the time must come when countries, too, submitted their quarrels to independent judgment. The British foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had used the words "a league of nations" in a letter to Wilson, and the president had liked the phrase. If Gus could help bring that about his life would mean something.
But now it looked as if that dream was not going to come true, he thought, and he drifted into a disappointed sleep.
He was woken early in the morning by a cable saying that Wilson had won Ohio-a blue-collar state that had liked the president's stand on the eight-hour day-and Kansas, too. Wilson was back in the running. A little later he won Minnesota by fewer than a thousand votes.
It was not over after all, and Gus's spirits lifted.
By Wednesday evening Wilson was ahead with 264 electoral votes against 254, a lead of 10. But one state, California, had not yet declared a result, and it carried 13 electoral votes. Whoever won California would be president.
Gus's phone went quiet. There was nothing much for him to do. The counting in Los Angeles was slow. Every unopened box was guarded by armed Democrats, who believed that tampering had robbed them of a presidential victory in 1876.
The result was still hanging in the balance when the lobby called to tell Gus he had a visitor. To his surprise it was Rosa Hellman, the former editor of the Buffalo Anarchist. Gus was pleased: Rosa was always interesting to talk to. He recalled that an anarchist had assassinated President McKinley in Buffalo in 1901. However, President Wilson was far away in New Jersey, so he brought Rosa up to the study and offered her a cup of coffee.
She was wearing a red coat. When he helped her off with it, he towered over her. He caught the aroma of a light flowery perfume.
"Last time we met you told me I was a goddamn fool to get engaged to Olga Vyalov," he said as he hung her coat on the hat stand.
She looked embarrassed. "I apologize."
"Ah, but you were right." He changed the subject. "So now you're working for a wire service?"
"That's right."
"As their Washington correspondent."
"No, I'm his one-eyed girl assistant."
She had never before mentioned her deformity. Gus hesitated, then said: "I used to wonder why you didn't wear a patch. But now I'm glad you don't. You're just a beautiful woman with one closed eye."
"Thank you. You're a kind man. What sort of thing do you do for the president?"
"Apart from pick up the phone when it rings... I read the State Department's mealymouthed reports, then tell Wilson the truth."
"For example...?"
"Our ambassadors in Europe say that the Somme offensive is achieving some but not all its objectives, with heavy casualties on both sides. It's almost impossible to prove that statement wrong-and it tells the president nothing. So I tell him the Somme is a disaster for the British." He shrugged. "Or I used to. My job may be over." He was concealing his real feelings. The prospect that Wilson could lose was dreadful to him.
She nodded. "They're counting again in California. Almost a million people voted, and the difference is about five thousand."
"So much hangs on the decisions of a small number of poorly educated people."
"That's democracy."
Gus smiled. "A terrible way to run a country, but every other system is worse."
"If Wilson wins, what will be his top priority?"
"Off the record?"
"Of course."
"Peace in Europe," Gus said without hesitation.
"Really?"
"He was never really comfortable with the slogan 'He kept us out of war.' The matter isn't entirely in his hands. We may be dragged in whether we like it or not."
"But what can he do?"
"He'll put pressure on both sides to find a compromise."
"Can he succeed?"
"I don't know."
"Surely they can't go on slaughtering one another as they have been at the Somme."
"God knows." He changed the subject again. "Tell me the news from Buffalo."
She gave him a candid look. "Do you want to know about Olga, or is it too embarrassing?"
Gus looked away. What could be more embarrassing? First he had received a note from Olga, calling the engagement off. She had been abjectly apologetic but had given no explanation. Gus had been unwilling to accept this and had written back demanding to see her in person. He could not understand it and speculated that someone was putting pressure on her. But later that same day his mother had discovered, through her network of gossiping friends, that Olga was going to marry her father's driver. "But why?" Gus had said in anguish, and Mother had replied: "My darling boy, there is only one reason a girl marries the chauffeur." He had stared uncomprehendingly, and Mother had at last said: "She must be pregnant." It was the most humiliating moment of Gus's life, and even a year later he winced with pain every time he recalled it.
Rosa read his face. "I shouldn't have mentioned her. I'm sorry."
Gus felt he might as well know what everyone else knew. He touched Rosa's hand lightly. "Thank you for being direct. I prefer it. And yes, I'm curious about Olga."
"Well, they got married at that Russian Orthodox church on Ideal Street, and the reception took place at the Statler Hotel. Six hundred people were invited, and Josef Vyalov hired the ballroom and the dining room, and served caviar to everyone. It was the most lavish wedding in the history of Buffalo."
"And what is her husband like?"
"Lev Peshkov is handsome, charming, and completely untrustworthy. You know as soon as you look at him that he's a rogue. And now he's the son-in-law of one of the richest men in Buffalo."
"And the child?"
"A girl, Darya, but they call her Daisy. She was born in March. And Lev is no longer the chauffeur, of course. I think he runs one of Vyalov's nightclubs."
They talked for an hour, then Gus walked her downstairs and hailed a cab to take her home.
Early next morning Gus got the California result by cable. Wilson had won by 3,777 votes. He had been reelected president.
Gus was elated. Four more years to try to achieve all they aimed for. They could change the world in four years.
While he was still staring at the telegram, his phone rang.
He picked it up and heard the switchboard operator say: "A call from Shadow Lawn. The president wants to speak to you, Mr. Dewar."
"Thank you."
A moment later he heard Wilson's familiar voice. "Good morning, Gus."
"Congratulations, Mr. President."
"Thank you. Pack a bag. I want you to go to Berlin."
{III}
When Walter von Ulrich came home on leave, his mother gave a party.
There were not many parties in Berlin. It was difficult to buy food, even for a wealthy woman with an influential husband. Suzanne von Ulrich was not well: she was thin, and had a permanent cough. However, she badly wanted to do something for Walter.
Otto had a cellar full of good wine he had bought before the war. Suzanne decided to have an afternoon reception, so that she would not have to provide a full dinner. She served little snacks of smoked fish and cheese on triangles of toast, and made up for the poor food with unlimited magnums of champagne.
Walter was grateful for the thought, but he did not really want a party. He had two weeks away from the battlefield, and he just wanted a soft bed, dry clothes, and the chance to lounge all day in the elegant salon of his parents' town house, looking out of the window and thinking about Maud, or sitting at the Steinway grand piano and playing Schubert's "Fruhlingsglaube": "Now everything, everything must change."
How glibly he and Maud had said, back in August 1914, that they would be reunited by Christmas! It was now more than two years since he had looked at her lovely face. And it was probably going to take Germany another two years to win the war. Walter's best hope was that Russia would collapse, allowing the Germans to concentrate their forces on a massive final westward sweep.
Meanwhile Walter sometimes had trouble visualizing Maud, and had to look at the worn and fading magazine photograph he carried: Lady Maud Fitzherbert is always dressed in the latest fashion. He did not relish a party without her. As he got ready he wished his mother had not troubled.
The house looked drab. There were not enough servants to keep the place spick-and-span. The men were in the army, the women had become streetcar conductors and mail deliverers, and the elderly staff who remained were struggling to maintain Mother's standards of cleanliness and polish. And the house was cold as well as grubby. The coal allowance was not enough to run the central heating, so mother had put freestanding stoves in the hall, the dining room, and the drawing room, but they were inadequate against the chill of November in Berlin.
However, Walter cheered up when the cold rooms filled with young people and a small band began to play in the hall. His younger sister, Greta, had invited all her friends. He realized how much he missed social life. He liked seeing girls in beautiful gowns and men in immaculate suits. He enjoyed the joking and flirting and gossip. He had loved being a diplomat-the life suited him. It was easy for him to be charming and make small talk.
The von Ulrich house had no ballroom, but people began to dance on the tiled floor of the hall. Walter danced several times with Greta's best friend, Monika von der Helbard, a tall, willowy redhead with long hair who reminded him of pictures by the English artists who called themselves pre-Raphaelites.
He got her a glass of champagne and sat down with her. She asked him what it was like in the trenches, as they all did. He usually said it was a hard life but the men were in good spirits and they would win in the end. For some reason he told Monika the truth. "The worst thing about it is that it's pointless," he said. "We've been in the same positions, give or take a few yards, for two years, and I can't see how that will be changed by anything the high command is doing-or even by anything they might do. We're cold, hungry, sick with coughs and trench foot and stomachache, and bored to tears-all for nothing."
"That's not what we read in the newspapers," she said. "How very sad." She squeezed his arm sympathetically. The touch affected him like a mild electric shock. No woman outside his family had touched him for two years. He suddenly thought how wonderful it would be to take Monika in his arms, press her warm body to his, and kiss her lips. Her amber eyes looked back at him with a candid gaze, and after a moment he realized she had read his mind. Women often did know what men were thinking, he had found. He felt embarrassed, but clearly she did not care, and that thought made him more aroused.
Someone approached them, and Walter looked up irritably, guessing the man wanted to ask Monika to dance. Then he recognized a familiar face. "My God!" he said. The name came back to him: he had an excellent memory for people, like all good diplomats. He said in English: "Is it Gus Dewar?"
Gus replied in German. "It is, but we can speak German. How are you?"
Walter stood up and shook hands. "May I present Freiin Monika von der Helbard? This is Gus Dewar, an adviser to President Woodrow Wilson."
"How delightful to meet you, Mr. Dewar," she said. "I shall leave you gentlemen to talk."
Walter watched her go with regret and mingled guilt. For a moment he had forgotten that he was a married man.
He looked at Gus. He had immediately liked the American when they met at Tŷ Gwyn. Gus was odd-looking, with a big head on a long thin body, but he was as sharp as a tack. Just out of Harvard then, Gus had had a charming shyness, but two years working in the White House had given him a degree of self-assurance. The shapeless style of lounge suit that Americans wore actually looked smart on him. Walter said: "I'm glad to see you. Not many people come here on holiday nowadays."
"It's not really a holiday," Gus said.
Walter waited for Gus to say more and, when he did not, prompted him. "What, then?"
"More like putting my toe in the water to see whether it's warm enough for the president to swim."
So this was official business. "I understand."
"To come to the point." Gus hesitated again, and Walter waited patiently. At last Gus spoke in a lowered voice. "President Wilson wants the Germans and the Allies to hold peace talks."
Walter's heart beat fast, but he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He sent you to say this to me?"
"You know how it is. The president can't risk a public rebuff-it makes him look weak. Of course, he could tell our ambassador here in Berlin to speak to your foreign minister. But then the whole thing would become official, and sooner or later it would get out. So he asked his most junior adviser-me-to come to Berlin and use some of the contacts I made back in 1914."
Walter nodded. A lot was done in this fashion in the diplomatic world. "If we turn you down, no one needs to know."
"And even if the news gets out, it's just some low-ranking young men acting on their own initiative."
This made sense, and Walter began to feel excited. "What exactly does Mr. Wilson want?"
Gus took a deep breath. "If the kaiser were to write to the Allies suggesting a peace conference, then President Wilson would publicly support the proposal."
Walter suppressed a feeling of elation. This unexpected private conversation could have world-shaking consequences. Was it really possible that the nightmare of the trenches could be brought to an end? And that he might see Maud again in months rather than years? He told himself not to get carried away. Unofficial diplomatic feelers like this usually came to nothing. But he could not help being enthusiastic. "This is big, Gus," he said. "Are you sure Wilson means it?"
"Absolutely. It was the first thing he said to me after he won the election."
"What's his motivation?"
"He doesn't want to take America to war. But there's a danger we'll be dragged in anyway. He wants peace. And then he wants a new international system to make sure that a war like this never happens again."
"I'll vote for that," said Walter. "What do you want me to do?"
"Speak to your father."
"He may not like this proposal."
"Use your powers of persuasion."
"I'll do my best. Can I reach you at the American embassy?"
"No. This is a private visit. I'm staying at the Hotel Adlon."
"Of course you are, Gus," said Walter with a grin. The Adlon was the best hotel in the city and had once been called the most luxurious in the world. He felt nostalgic for those last years of peace. "Will we ever again be two young men with nothing on our minds except catching the waiter's eye to order another bottle of champagne?"
Gus took the question seriously. "No, I don't believe those days will ever come back, at least not in our lifetime."
Walter's sister, Greta, appeared. She had curly blond hair that shook fetchingly when she tossed her head. "What are you men looking so miserable about?" she said gaily. "Mr. Dewar, come and dance with me!"
Gus brightened. "Gladly!" he said.
She whisked him off.
Walter returned to the party but as he chatted to friends and relations, half his mind was on Gus's proposal and how best to promote it. When he spoke to his father, he would try not to seem too keen. Father could be contrary. Walter would play the role of neutral messenger.
When the guests had gone, his mother cornered him in the salon. The room was decorated in the Rococo style that was still the choice of old-fashioned Germans: ornate mirrors, tables with spindly curved legs, a big chandelier. "What a nice girl that Monika von der Helbard is," she said.
"Very charming," Walter agreed.
His mother wore no jewelry. She was chair of the gold-collection committee, and had given her baubles to be sold. All she had left was her wedding ring. "I must invite her again, with her parents next time. Her father is the Markgraf von der Helbard."
"Yes, I know."
"It's a very good family. They belong to the Uradel, the ancient nobility."
Walter moved to the door. "At what time do you expect Father to return home?"
"Soon. Walter, sit down and talk to me for a moment."
Walter had made it obvious he wanted to get away. The reason was that he needed to spend a quiet hour thinking about Gus Dewar's message. But he had been discourteous to his mother, whom he loved, and now he set about making amends. "With pleasure, Mother." He drew up a chair for her. "I imagined you might want to rest but, if not, I'd love to talk." He sat opposite her. "That was a super party. Thank you very much for organizing it."
She nodded acknowledgment, but changed the subject. "Your cousin Robert is missing," she said. "He was lost during the Brusilov Offensive."