Ashenden

do a particular job, and, by gum, he was going to do it or perish in the attempt. Then Anastasia Alexandrovna took him in hand. A singular friendship had arisen between the pair. Mr. Harrington thought her a very remarkable and deeply wronged woman; he told her all about his wife and his two sons, he told her all about the Constitution of the United States; she on her side told him all about Vladimir Semenovich, and she told him about Tolstoy, Turgenev and Dostoevsky. They had great times together. He said he couldn’t manage to call her Anastasia Alexandrovna, it was too much of a mouthful; so he called her Delilah. And now she placed her inexhaustible energy at his service and they went together to the persons who might be useful to him. But things were coming to a head. Riots broke out and the streets were growing dangerous. Now and then armoured cars filled with discontented reservists careered wildly along the Nevsky Prospekt and in order to show that they were not happy took potshots at the passersby. On one occasion when Mr. Harrington and Anastasia Alexandrovna were in a tram together shots peppered the windows and they had to lie down on the floor for safety. Mr. Harrington was highly indignant.

“An old fat woman was lying right on top of me and when I wriggled to get out Delilah caught me a clip on the side of the head and said, ‘Stop still, you fool.’ I don’t like your Russian ways, Delilah.”

“Anyhow you stopped still,” she giggled.

“What you want in this country is a little less art and a little more civilisation.”

“You are bourgeoisie, Mr. Harrington, you are not a member of the intelligentsia.”

“You are the first person who’s ever said that, Delilah. If I’m not a member of the intelligentsia I don’t know who is,” retorted Mr. Harrington with dignity.

Then one day when Ashenden was working in his room there was a knock at the door and Anastasia Alexandrovna stalked in followed somewhat sheepishly by Mr. Harrington. Ashenden saw that she was excited.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Unless this man goes back to America he’ll get killed. You really must talk to him. If I hadn’t been there something very unpleasant might have happened to him.”

“Not at all, Delilah,” said Mr. Harrington, with asperity. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I wasn’t in the smallest danger.”

“What is it all about?” asked Ashenden.

“I’d taken Mr. Harrington to the Lavra of Alexander Nevsky to see Dostoevsky’s grave,” said Anastasia Alexandrovna, “and on our way back we saw a soldier being rather rough with an old woman.”

“Rather rough!” cried Mr. Harrington. “There was an old woman walking along the sidewalk with a basket of provisions on her arm. Two soldiers came up behind her and one of them snatched the basket from her and walked off with it. She burst out screaming and crying, I don’t know what she was saying, but I can guess, and the other soldier took his gun and with the butt-end of it hit her over the head. Isn’t that right, Delilah?”

“Yes,” she answered, unable to help smiling. “And before I could prevent it Mr. Harrington jumped out of the cab and ran up to the soldier who had the basket, wrenched it from him and began to abuse the pair of them like pickpockets. At first they were so taken aback they didn’t know what to do and then they got in a rage. I ran after Mr. Harrington and explained to them that he was a foreigner and drunk.”

“Drunk?” cried Mr. Harrington.

“Yes, drunk. Of course a crowd collected. It looked as though it wasn’t going to be very nice.”

Mr. Harrington smiled with those large, pale-blue eyes of his.

“It sounded to me as though you were giving them a piece of your mind, Delilah. It was as good as a play to watch you.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mr. Harrington,” cried Anastasia, in a sudden fury, stamping her foot. “Don’t you know that those soldiers might very easily have killed you and me too, and not one of the bystanders would have raised a finger to help us?”

“Me? I’m an American citizen, Delilah. They wouldn’t dare touch a hair of my head.”

“They’d have difficulty in finding one,” said Anastasia Alexandrovna, who when she was in a temper had no manners. “But if you think Russian soldiers are going to hesitate to kill you because you’re an American citizen you’ll get a big surprise one of these days.”

“Well, what happened to the old woman?” asked Ashenden.

“The soldiers went off after a little and we went back to her.”

“Still with the basket?”

“Yes. Mr. Harrington clung on to that like grim death. She was lying on the ground with the blood pouring from her head. We got her into the cab and when she could speak enough to tell us where she lived we drove her home. She was bleeding dreadfully and we had some difficulty in staunching the blood.”

Anastasia Alexandrovna gave Mr. Harrington an odd look and to his surprise Ashenden saw him turn scarlet.

“What’s the matter now?”

“You see, we had nothing to bind her up with. Mr. Harrington’s handkerchief was soaked. There was only one thing about me that I could get off quickly and so I took off my⁠ ⁠…”

But before she could finish Mr. Harrington interrupted her.

“You need not tell Mr. Ashenden what you took off. I’m a married man and I know ladies wear them, but I see no need to refer to them in general society.”

Anastasia Alexandrovna giggled.

“Then you must kiss me, Mr. Harrington. If you don’t I shall say.”

Mr. Harrington hesitated a moment, considering evidently the pros and cons of the matter, but he saw that Anastasia Alexandrovna was determined.

“Go on then, you may kiss me, Delilah, though I’m bound to say I don’t see what pleasure it can be to you.”

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks, then without a word of