She looked up from the writing desk, her eyes preoccupied for the moment with her own thoughts.
“Yes?”
“I want to talk to you,” Nicholas repeated, “about your war work.”
He sat down in a chair beside her and now Fenella put down her pen and gave him her whole attention.
“About my war work?” she echoed.
“Yes. Raymond spoke to me about it before he left.”
“He said something to me. The trouble is, Nicholas, what am I to do?”
“That is what I have been seeing about,” Nicholas said, “and incidentally it’s a long story, which concerns myself.”
“Tell me,” Fenella commanded, leaning forward, her elbows on the desk, her face cupped in her hands.
“Well, it’s – like this,” Nicholas began, hesitating and stammering a little over his words as he usually did when he was shy or embarrassed about
