The Secret Warriors - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,122

and then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Two people speaking the same language differently again,” she said. “The vernacular is different. I would not use that slang, if you don’t mind the suggestion, in mixed English company.”

“Jumping is screwing in English English?” he asked.

“Why did I bring this subject up?”

Why indeed?

“In Australia it’s ‘rooting,’” Whittaker offered.

“Did you have a nice ride to and from London?” she asked, diverting the conversation to what she obviously hoped was a sexless subject.

“Lovely,” he said. “Why are you down? Is there anything I can do?”

“You’ve done it,” she said, raising the whiskey glass.

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

“I took advantage of everyone’s absence to wander through the house,” she said. “I’m afraid it was a mistake. It made me miss my husband.”

Well, there goes the ball game.

“Where’s he stationed?” “Where’s he stationed?”

“My husband is down,” she said. “He was flying a Wellington. It went down over Hanover. There were some parachutes, but there’s been no word.”

“Jesus,” Whittaker said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about that.”

Her eyes met his for a moment, then she looked away.

“Could you possibly spare some more of that?” she asked. She could not let things stand like that, she decided. It would be unfair.

“Of course,” he said, and poured Scotch in her glass. “When that’s gone, I’ll go steal some more.”

“Why are you down?” she asked.

“The standard reason, I suppose: unrequited love.”

“That’s strange,” she said. “I thought you would be one of these people who believe that not to worry, if you lose one woman, another will be along shortly, like a tram.”

“After a while, Your Grace, one becomes rather bored with trams,” he said, in a credible, mock British accent.

She laughed.

“Then this is a serious relationship that’s gone awry?” she said.

“It hasn’t gone awry, because I have never been able to get this particular tram on the tracks.”

“Have you told her?”

“She knows.”

“Oh.”

“Were you ever infatuated, as a girl, with a boy? I mean when you were ten, or twelve? And the boy was a couple of years older?”

“Of course,” she said. “This girl thinks she is too young for you?”

“The reverse. I was the ten-year-old hopelessly in love with a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“And she thought—still thinks—she’s too old for you?”

“That’s part of it, I think,” he said. “She can’t forget the bony-kneed little boy with braces on his teeth and suppurating acne.”

She chuckled.

“You don’t have acne now,” she said.

You’re a damned good-looking young man, as a matter of fact.

“I was sitting here developing a theory that she’s been burned by love.”

“All women are burned by love at one time or another,” she said. “It passes with time.”

“I think she was really in love with this guy,” Whittaker said. “Which makes sense, considering the guy. And the girl.”

“You know him?”

“Very well,” Whittaker said. “He died.”

“And she’s mourning over him?”

“Some people have said that this guy and I are—were—very much alike. Theory two thousand and two holds that she is rejecting me because I am so much like the other guy. That she was really hurt when he kicked the bucket and is afraid of getting involved again and getting hurt again.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” she said. “You want my advice?”

“Why not?”

“She’ll probably come to her senses,” she said. “Sooner or later. Are you willing to wait?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“Then wait,” she said. “It may not take as long as you think it will.”

“And, in the meantime, you don’t happen to know when the next tram will be along, do you? To tide me over?”

Whittaker saw her face change.

You did it again, Motormouth! Jesus, what’s wrong with you?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“No offense taken,” she said. “I knew what you meant.”

“I’m about to have another of these,” Whittaker said, raising his glass. “How about you?”

“I won’t even say I shouldn’t,” she said, drained her glass, and handed it to him.

He reached for the bottle of Scotch.

“Have you ever wondered why there are two apartments?” she asked. “Why I lived here, and my husband in a separate apartment?”

The question confused him, and when he turned to look at her, it showed on his face.

“I suppose that goes back a long time,” he said.

“The purpose of marriage between the nobility is to ensure the line, to buttress alliances,” she said. “That sort of thing.”

“I’m about to misinterpret this whole conversation,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You already have misinterpreted this conversation, with that sweet, hopeless look on your face when I told you Edward is