She was staying at a Finnish hydro near Helsingfors. I asked for her
on the telephone and her old mother answered.
"Is it you, Monsieur Anatole? Fancy ringing up so early--twelve
o'clock! Of course Tatiana is in bed. One can see you have been away
from your native country a long time. We left Petersburg three months
ago. Come and see us at a reasonable time--say three o'clock--and
we'll tell you all about it."
My two years' sojourn in England had accustomed me to English ways.
I had certainly committed an indiscretion in ringing up my former
clients (I was their legal adviser in Petersburg) at such an
unconscionable time.
I found Tatiana, in a smart black glace gown, reclining on a sofa
and smoking a cigarette in a dull sitting-room, surrounded by other
Russian _emigres_. She jumped up when she saw me.
"At last, Monsieur Anatole," she said. "You remember when you left
Petersburg in 1918 I told you that you would be submarined, but here
you are back again safely. I'm _so glad_." Her eyes shone and she held
out her little white hand. "You have brought it with you?"
"What with me?"
"The soap, of course. Surely you remember. I asked you to buy me some
Savon Ideal in Paris. It is the only kind that suits my skin."
"But I haven't been to Paris."
"You haven't brought my soap! Why haven't you been to Paris?"
"I have been to London."