Miss Roach had, in fact, first met her in a greengrocery, where she was being singled out for public humiliation by disregard on the part of the assistants, and she had gone out of her way to talk to her and help her get what she wanted. After that they had spoken to each other, from time to time, on the street, and one morning had had a coffee together at a confectioner’s. From this had arisen a habit of having coffee together on Saturday mornings, a visit or two to the pictures, and, lastly, an occasional meeting at the River Sun for a drink.

Mr. Thwaites getting to hear of this, innuendo at table was at once begun, astutely detached mention being made of ‘our German friends in the town’ and certain people who ‘seemed to like them’, thus, according to Mr. Thwaites, encouraging the ineptitude of the authorities, who, instead of locking up, hanging, or shooting them, caused them to multiply and flourish. For although Mr. Thwaites in his heart profoundly respected the German people for their political wisdom, he was not the sort of man who could refrain from participation in any sort of popular chase when one appeared on his doorstep. A supreme and overpowering master in the craft of eating his cake and having it too, he was often led into such contradictions. His remarks, however, only served to harden and fortify Miss Roach in her pursuit of the friendship.

Vicki Kugelmann, who was about the same age as herself, and who worked as assistant to a local vet, seemed to Miss Roach to be quiet, cultivated, and intelligent, and because isolated in the town (for different reasons but in much the same way as herself) admirably cut out as a friend. Apart from one or two joking references, made by Vicki herself, to her own reputation as a spy, and apart from one allusion made to the Hitler regime (‘Ah – I do not know what has happened to my country,’ she had said, and shuddered, or rather imitated a shudder, and looked into the distance), no mention ever arose between them of her race, and for this she seemed modestly grateful. Miss Roach began to look forward to these meetings, and to exchange confidences. The German girl was unhappy in her rooms, where her landlady, it seemed, was privately taking financial and other advantage of public prejudice, and Miss Roach had even gone so far as to speak of approaching Mrs. Payne and trying to get her into the Rosamund Tea Rooms – not in the house, of course, which was full, but in a room near by, whence she could come over to meals and take advantage of the Lounge. In the excitement of the last few weeks, however, and in the feeling of marked trepidation towards Mrs. Payne brought into being by certain telephoning incidents resulting from this excitement, she had neglected to do this.

Miss Roach arrived promptly on time at the River Sun, and her friend was not there. She went to the bar, obtained a gin and french, and took it over to the corner in which she usually sat with the Lieutenant. She had been careful to take with her, as a sort of escort, a newspaper, which she could read while she waited. There were very few people in the bar, however, none of whom were interested in her, and she sat looking about her, studying the people and the room. This, about five years ago, had been redecorated by a new proprietor, and in such a startling manner as to give the impression of having been redecorated only yesterday – in fact, it would probably, as numerous saloon lounges all over the country do, bear permanently the stamp of redecoration. The house being Elizabethan in origin, a curious aim at an Elizabethan manner had been made in the way of black beams, wooden panelling, uncomfortable black chairs and tables, odd pieces of armour, suspended swords, and almost indecipherable Gothic lettering over the doors. But upon this a Scottish atmosphere had been imposed – samples of Scottish tartans having been inserted into the upper panels, and pictures having been put up which dealt exclusively with Scottish Highlands and other Scottish matters. Also framed Scottish proverbs had been hung on either side of the red Devonshire fireplace, in which an electrical apparatus, set in an external semblance of burning coal, revolved incessantly. To add to the confusion, and in destruction of the other illusions, there were two electric ball-machines (one representing, when lit and clicking, an imitation of the sport of racing-motoring, and the other of the sport of ski-ing); a glass-enclosed machine with a chromium-plated crane which was by natural law capable of extracting cameras, watches, and wallets, but which in historical practice brought forth nothing save one or two hard, pea-like sweets to console the operator; several green-leather chromium-plated high stools along the bar, and a modern green carpet with whorls which put one in mind of sea-sickness.

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed without Miss Roach’s friend appearing, and she was just about to fear that ‘something had happened’, when the door opened and she came in, looking about her. Spotting Miss Roach, she came over and sat beside her, smiling and saying ‘Ah – here you are!’ It struck Miss Roach that she made no mention of being late; in fact she gave out an atmosphere as if Miss Roach herself were a little late, and Miss Roach guessed that she might have made a mistake about the time, and said nothing. Miss Roach asking her what she was drinking, the other said, ‘No – what are you drinking?’, to which Miss Roach replied, ‘No – what are you drinking?’; and there began a rapid fire of protestations, all beginning with the word No, in regard to whose turn it was, who was ‘in the chair’, who had arrived first and who had invited whom – Miss Roach finally going to the bar and getting two gin and french.

‘And did you enjoy your visit to the pictures this afternoon?’ said the German girl, when they were settled again and were lighting cigarettes. She said this with a certain arch, suggestive, and old-fashioned air which was characteristic of her.

Thirty-eight years of age, with blonde hair, a fair complexion, a reasonably good figure, and a face which, with its large blue eyes, pinched nose, and fullish mouth, would not be noticed in the street as attractive or otherwise, or as indicating any age more or less than her own, Vicki Kugelmann gave forth a faintly old-fashioned, or rather out-of-date, atmosphere, which Miss Roach had never been able fully to analyse. It might have been caused by her hair, which was actually ‘shingled’ in the manner of 1925: it might have been her clothes, which, though neat and becoming enough, had an off-fashionable and rather second-hand air: it might have been her manner, her quick facial expressions, the too industrious use of her eyes and mouth to express surprise, sympathy, or resignation – her habit of making moues. It might have been her way of powdering her nose in a hand-mirror or smoking a cigarette with a cigarette-holder, both of which she would do with more fuss, precision, and ceremony than was usual, as if these things were novelties to which she had been lately introduced and by which she was still fascinated. In all these ways she impressed Miss Roach as being slightly, and somewhat naively, behind the times; though Miss Roach often thought that it might be less that she was behind the times than that she was behind the customs and idiom of the country in which she was residing, that these mannerisms arose from the fact that she was to a certain extent a fish out of water – in a word, a ‘foreigner’S.

‘And how did you know I was at the pictures?’ asked Miss Roach.

‘Ah. I know.