Monday....
I think I must have dreamed that Terry and Mizzi were married, for I
woke up thinking of it. Even now the memory of that morning comes to me
enveloped in the dream of the two of them; somehow it is all bright
sunlight--the sunlight on the geraniums in the wooden boxes, the
sunlight on Terry's face as I left him sleeping, and the sunlight
drenching Mizzi's little office....
"_Morgen_," she said, as I entered, and I told her that Terry was
asleep, and that I had come down to have a chat with her, if she wasn't
too busy.
(I know now almost exactly what I was going to say to her, for I had
planned it all very carefully. I was going to talk about Terry--to lead
the conversation up to a point at which she might, if she cared, confide
in me. I was going to say and do so many clever things, if I had had the
chance. But I didn't have the chance.)
She said to me suddenly: "What was the train that your friend Mr. Severn
travelled by?"
I told her; and then she said: "Do you think he would break the journey
at all--at Innsbrück, say, or Zürich, or Basle?"
"I don't think so. He said he was going to get to England as soon as he
could."
"And his train is due to arrive in Paris early this morning?"
"Yes ... I rather think so."
Then she said, very quietly: "I am sorry.... There iss bad news--an
accident.... No details yet, but a bad accident--near Paris.... I heard
on the telephone just now.... Will you sit down while I ring up again?"