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and the Bolsheviks?’ Captain Ingpen at their distance enquired, politely and with lowered voice, casting a glance upon the silvery form of the Indian princess, her slender limbs outlined against the flames. Strange, thought Monica, that Hester should first have been presented to her awareness as boyish and in rubber boots. She could imagine nothing more feminine or more alluring than the translucent figure drooping before the fire. Captain Ingpen did not look allured, however; he looked rather ironic, as though the memory of the young creature and the Bolsheviks made him smile inwardly.

‘That was in the past before I knew Hester. She still performs feats, or is quite ready to do so: she is wonderfully equipped; wonderfully secure.’

‘Almost frighteningly so, eh? She always frightened me, I remember, so very young and so very fierce she was, and believed that every problem was just about to be solved—by the Girton young—here and now, in England’s green and pleasant land.’

‘I never thought of Hester as harbouring illusions.’ Monica smiled a little dryly, for she could admit no confidences with regard to Hester. ‘And they have solved a good many problems, the be-