It was a blazing hot morning and
the air quivered, like a silver curtain before our eyes, separating us
from the dim blue forest of S---- beyond the river, the Nestor itself,
the deep green slopes of our own hill. We had been silent, then
Trenchard said a foolish thing: "War brings all the best out of
people, I think," he said. God knows what private line of thought he
had been pursuing, some sentimental reflections, I suppose, that were
in him perfectly honest and sincere. But he did not look his best that
morning, sitting back in his chair with his mouth open, his forehead
damp with the heat, his tunic up about his neck and a rather dirty
blue pocket-handkerchief in his hand.
I saw Semyonov's lip curl.
"Yes. That's very interesting, Mr.," he said. "I'm glad at any rate
that we've had the honour of seeing the best of _you_. That's very
pleasant to know."
"What I mean--" said Trenchard, blushing and stammering. "What ...
that is--"
"I agree with Mr.," suddenly said Nikitin, who had been dreamily
watching the blue forest.
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