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However, the old trees were coming into leaf, the sun was shining, and Walter was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his coat slung over his shoulder-a state of undress that would have displeased his mother, but she was in the house, gossiping with the grafin. His sister, Greta, had been walking with Walter and Monika, but she had made an excuse and left them alone-another thing Mother would have deplored, at least in theory.
Monika had a dog called Pierre. It was a standard poodle, long-legged and graceful, with a lot of curly rust-colored hair and light brown eyes, and Walter could not help thinking that it looked a little like Monika, beautiful though she was.
He liked the way she acted with her dog. She did not pet it or feed it scraps or talk to it in a baby voice, as some girls did. She just let it walk at her heel, and occasionally threw an old tennis ball for it to fetch.
"It's so disappointing about the Russians," she said.
Walter nodded. Prince Lvov's government had announced they would continue to fight. Germany's eastern front was not to be relieved, and there would be no reinforcements for France. The war would drag on. "Our only hope now is that Lvov's government will fall and the peace faction will take over," Walter said.
"Is that likely?"
"It's hard to say. The left revolutionaries are still demanding bread, peace, and land. The government has promised a democratic election for a constituent assembly-but who will win?" He picked up a twig and threw it for Pierre. The dog bounded after it, and proudly brought it back. Walter bent down to pat its head, and when he straightened up Monika was very close to him.
"I like you, Walter," she said, looking very directly at him with her amber eyes. "I feel as if we would never run out of things to talk about. "
He had the same feeling, and he knew that if he tried to kiss her now she would let him.
He stepped away. "I like you, too," he said. "And I like your dog. " He laughed, to show that he was speaking lightheartedly.
All the same he could see that she was hurt. She bit her lip and turned away. She had been about as bold as was possible for a well-brought-up girl, and he had rejected her.
They walked on. After a long silence Monika said: "What is your secret, I wonder?"
My God, he thought, she's sharp. "I have no secrets," he lied. "Do you?"
"None worth telling. " She reached up and brushed something off his shoulder. "A bee," she said.
"It's too soon in the year for bees. "
"Perhaps we shall have an early summer. "
"It's not that warm. "
She pretended to shiver. "You're right, it's chilly. Would you fetch me a wrap? If you go to the kitchen and ask a maid she will find one. "
"Of course. " It was not chilly, but a gentleman never refused such a request, no matter how whimsical. She obviously wanted a minute alone. He strolled back to the house. He had to spurn her advances, but he was sorry to hurt her. They were well suited-their mothers were quite right-and clearly Monika could not understand why he kept pushing her away.
He entered the house and went down the back stairs to the basement, where he found an elderly housemaid in a black dress and a lace cap. She went off to find a shawl.
Walter waited in the hall. The house was decorated in the up-to-date Jugendstil, which did away with the rococo flourishes loved by Walter's parents and favored well-lit rooms with gentle colors. The pillared hall was all cool gray marble and mushroom-colored carpet.
It seemed to him as if Maud was a million miles away on another planet. And in a way she was, for the prewar world would never come back. He had not seen his wife nor heard from her for almost three years, and he might never meet her again. Although she had not faded from his mind-he would never forget the passion they had shared-he did find, to his distress, that he could no longer recall the fine details of their times together: what she was wearing, where they were when they kissed or held hands, or what they ate and drank and talked about when they met at those endlessly similar London parties. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the war had in a way divorced them. But he pushed the thought aside: it was shamefully disloyal.
The maid brought him a yellow cashmere shawl. He returned to Monika, who was sitting on a tree stump with Pierre at her feet. Walter gave her the shawl and she put it around her shoulders. The color suited her, making her eyes gleam and her skin glow.
She had a strange look on her face, and she handed him his wallet. "This must have fallen out of your coat," she said.
"Oh, thank you. " He returned it to the inside pocket of the coat that he still had slung over his shoulder.
She said: "Let's go back to the house. "
"As you wish. "
Her mood had changed. Perhaps she had simply decided to give up on him. Or had something else happened?
He was struck by a frightening thought. Had his wallet really fallen out of his coat? Or had she taken it, like a pickpocket, when she brushed that unlikely bee off his shoulder? "Monika," he said, and he stopped and turned to face her. "Did you look inside my wallet?"
"You said you had no secrets," she said, and she blushed bright red.
