"
"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.
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