track. He had not come to France to speak English or to think in English. For the first week he sedulously avoided her, together with her two children. He did not have to meet them. They spent a great part of their time in the salon; there were no other visitors in the hotel in between time. He lived mostly in his bedroom or else in the estaminet, where he played innumerable games of draughts with the habitues.
Cavanagh, they told him, was an official in the League of Nations at Geneva, not more than twenty miles away as the crow flies. He was evidently fearful of an invasion of Switzerland by the Germans, and had prudently sent his wife and children into Allied France. They had been at Cidoton for a month; each week-end he motored across the border to visit them. Howard saw hun the first Saturday that he was there, a sandy-haired, worried- looking man of forty-five or so.
The following week-end Howard had a short talk with him. To the old solicitor, Cavanagh appeared to be oddly unpractical. He was devoted to the League of Nations even in this time of war.
'A lot of people say that the League has been a failure,' he explained. 'Now, I think that is very unfair. If you look at the record of that last twenty years you'll see a record of achievement that no other organisation can show. Look at what the League did in the matter of the drug traffic!' And so on.
About the war, he said: The only failure that can be laid to the account of the League is its failure to inspire the nations with faith in its ideals. And that means propaganda. And propaganda costs money. If the nations had spent one-tenth of what they have spent in armaments on the League, there would have been no war.'
After half an hour of this, old Howard came to the conclusion that Mr Cavanagh was a tedious fellow. He bore with him from a natural politeness, and because the man was evidently genuine, but he made his escape as soon as he decently could. The extent of his sincerity was not made plain to Howard till the day he met Mrs Cavanagh in the woods, and walked a mile back to the hotel with her.
He found her a devoted echo of her man. 'Eustace would never leave the League,' she said. 'Even if the Germans were to enter Switzerland, he'd never leave Geneva. There's still such great work to be done.'
The old man looked at her over his spectacles. 'But would the Germans let him go on doing it if they got into Switzerland?'
'Why, of course they would,' she said. 'The League is international. I know, of course, that Germany is no longer a member of the League. But she appreciates our non-political activities. The League prides itself that it could function equally well in any country, or under any government. If it could not do that, it couldn't be said to be truly international, could it?'
'No,' said Howard, 'I suppose it couldn't.'
They walked on for a few steps in silence. 'But if Geneva really were invaded by the Germans,' he said at last, 'would your husband stay there?'
'Of course. It would be very disloyal if he didn't.' She paused, and then she said: That's why he sent me out here with the children, into France.'
She explained to him that they had no ties in England. For ten years they had lived in Geneva; both children had been born there. In that time they had seldom returned to England, even on holiday. It had barely occurred to them that she should take the children back to England, so far away from him. Cidoton, just across the border into France, was far enough.
'It's only just for a few weeks, until the situation clears a little,' she said placidly. Then we shall be able to go home.' To her, Geneva was home.
He left her at the entrance to the hotel, but next day at dejeuner she smiled at him when he came into the room, and asked him if he had enjoyed his walk.
'I went as far as the Pointe des Neiges,' he said courteously. 'It was delightful up there this morning, quite delightful.'
After that they often passed a word or two together, and he fell into the habit of sitting with her for a quarter of an hour each evening after dinner in the salon, drinking a cup of coffee. He got to know the children too.
There were two of them. Ronald was a dark-haired little boy of eight, whose toy train littered the floor of the salon with its tin lines. He was mechanical, and would stand fascinated at the garage door while the concierge laboured to induce ten-year-old spark-plugs to fire the mixture in the ten-year-old Chrysler. Old Howard came up behind him once.
'Could you drive a car like that?' he asked gently.
'Mais oui - c'est facile, ca' French came more easily to this little boy than English. 'You climb up in the seat and steer with the wheel.'
'But could you start it?'
'You just push the button, et elle va. That's the 'lectric starter.' He pointed to the knob.
'That's right. But it would be a very big car for you to manage.'
The child said: 'Big cars are easier to drive than little ones. Have you got a car?'
Howard shook his head. 'Not now. I used to have one.'
'What son was it?'
The old man looked down helplessly. 'I really forget,' he said. 'I think it was a Standard.'
Ronald looked up at him, incredulous. 'Don't you remember?'
But Howard couldn't.
The other child was Sheila, just five years old. Her drawings littered the floor of the salon; for the moment her life was filled with a passion for coloured chalks. Once as Howard came downstairs he found her sitting in a heap on the landing at a turn of the staircase, drawing industriously on the fly-leaf of a book. The first tread of the flight served as a desk.
He stooped down by her. 'What are you drawing?'
She did not answer.
'Won't you show me?' he said. And then: 'The chalks are lovely colours.'
He knelt down rheumatically on one knee. 'It looks like a lady.'
She looked up at him. 'Lady with a dog,' she said.
'Where's the dog?' He looked at the smudged pastel streaks.
She was silent. 'Shall I draw the dog, walking behind on a lead?' he said.
She nodded vigorously. Howard bent to his task, his knees aching. But his hand had lost whatever cunning it might once have had, and his dog became a pig.
Sheila said: 'Ladies don't take pigs for a walk.'
His ready wit had not deserted the solicitor. 'This one did,' he said. 'This is the little pig that went to market.'
The child pondered this. 'Draw the little pig that stayed at home,' she said, 'and the little piggy eating roast beef.' But Howard's knees would stand no more of it. He stumbled to his feet. 'I'll do that for you tomorrow.'
It was only at that stage he realised that his picture of the lady leading a pig embellished the fly-leaf of A Child's Life of Jesus.
Next day after dejeuner she was waiting for him in the hall. 'Mummy said I might ask you if you wanted a sweet.' She held up a grubby paper bag with a sticky mass in the bottom.
Howard said gravely: Thank you very much.' He fumbled in the bag and picked out a morsel which he put into his mouth. Thank you, Sheila.'
She turned, and ran from him through the estaminet into the big kitchen of the inn. He heard her chattering in there in fluent French to Madam Lucard as she offered her sweets.
He turned, and Mrs Cavanagh was on the stairs. The old man wiped his fingers furtively on the handkerchief in his pocket. They speak French beautifully,' he said.
She smiled. They do, don't they? The little school they go to is French-speaking, of course.'
He said: 'They just picked it up, I suppose?'
'Oh yes. We didn't have to teach it to them.'
He got to know the children slightly after that and passed the time of day with them whenever he met them alone; on their side they said: 'Good morning, Mr Howard,' as if it was a lesson that they had been taught - which indeed it was. He would have liked to get to know them better, but he was shy, with the diffidence of age. He used to sit and watch them playing in the garden underneath the pine-trees sometimes, mysterious games that he
