“There is always the other place.”

“The Ottoman?  Do not speak to me of the Ottoman.  Moreover, that also will be suppressed.  They are all mad.”  She gave a great sigh.  “Oh!  What a fool I was to leave Paris!  After all, in Paris, they know what it is, life!  However, I weary thee.  Let us say no more about it.”

She controlled her agitation.  The subject was excessively delicate, and that she should have expressed herself so violently on it showed the powerful reality of the emotion it had aroused in her.  Unquestionably the decency of her livelihood was at stake.  She had convinced him of the peril.  But what could he say?  He could not say, “Do not despair.  You are indispensable; therefore you will not be dispensed with.  These crises have often arisen before, and they always end in the same manner.  And are there not the big hotels, the chic cinemas, certain restaurants?  Not to mention the clientele which you must have made for yourself?” Such remarks were impossible.  But not more impossible than the very basis of his relations with her.  He was aware again of the weight of an undischarged obligation to her.  His behaviour towards her had always been perfection, and yet was she not his creditor?  He had a conscience, and it was illogical and extremely inconvenient.

At that moment a young man flew along the silent, shadowed street, and as he passed them shouted somewhat hysterically the one word: 

“Zepps!”

Christine clutched his arm.  They stood still.

“Do not be frightened,” said G.J. with perfect tranquillity.

“But I hear guns,” she protested.

He, too, heard the distant sounds of guns, and it occurred to him that the sounds had begun earlier, while they were talking.

“I expect it’s only anti-aircraft practice,” he replied.  “I seem to remember seeing a warning in the paper about there being practice one of these nights.”

Christine, increasing the pressure on his arm and apparently trying to drag him away, complained: 

“They ought to give warning of raids.  That is elementary.  This country is so bizarre.”

“Oh!” said G.J., full of wisdom and standing his ground.  “That would never do.  Warnings would make panics, and they wouldn’t help in the least.  We are just as safe here as anywhere.  Even supposing there is an air-raid, the chance of any particular spot being hit must be several million to one against.  And I don’t think for a moment there is an air-raid.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t,” G.J. answered with calm superiority.  The fact was that he did not know why he thought there was not an air-raid.  To assume that there was not an air-raid, in the absence of proof positive of the existence of an air-raid, was with him constitutional:  a state of mind precisely as illogical, biased and credulous as the alarmist mood which he disdained in others.  Also he was lacking in candour, for after a few seconds the suspicion crept into his mind that there might indeed be an air-raid—­and he would not utter it.