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hour later the car pulled up in front of a large but nondescript house in a residential neigh borhood, and they were hustled up the front steps and inside. Ilsa was told to wear her coat collar turned up and her hat pulled down low.
    Once inside, however, everything was different. Ilsa had not been sure what to expect, but it wasn't this.
    The parlor floor was warm and cozy. Elegant Wil liam Morris wallpaper adorned the walls, and the hearty overstuffed furniture was covered in bright prints. The curtains were brocade and the ceilings orna mented with plaster. A coal fire burned in the hearth, casting off a welcoming warmth, and two chairs nestled invitingly on either side of it. It looked like home, cer tainly more of a home than she had had in the past year and a half.
    A kindly woman, verging on elderly but still evi dently with all her wits and strength about her, took her things and handed her a glass of tea. "I'm Mrs. Bunton," she said by way of introduction. "I should expect you've had a long and difficult journey. This will take some of the chill off."
    At the other end of the room, Ilsa watched her hus band conferring with Major Miles and another man, who was dressed in the formal morning coat of a diplo mat. They were too far away, and speaking too softly, for her to hear their words.
    She took her tea from Mrs. Bunton gratefully, and as she drank it she felt some warmth come back into her bones. After a few minutes Victor broke away from his conversation and walked over to her. "You must be very tired, my dear," he said. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest for a while? I'll join you shortly."
    "Oh, Victor," she said, "couldn't I stay here, for just a few more minutes?"
    Victor glanced back at the two other men in the room. "I'm afraid I must insist."
    There was no point in struggling. "Very well," she said. Mrs. Bunton led her up the stairs and into a beau tifully appointed double room. "I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable here," she said, shutting the door.
    Although she was very tired, for a long time Ilsa lay in bed, unable to fall asleep. She knew the real reason that underlay Victor's solicitude: the conversation he was having had nothing to do with her. She had played out this scene dozens of times before. The meetings in the middle of the night. The strange men in the parlor, some with faces muffled against recognition. Always it ended the same way, with Victor asking her to leave and closing a door on her. She didn't want it to be that way any longer.
    For the first time in months she felt safe—safe and yet very, very alone. That, she thought, was the story of her married life with Victor Laszlo. His wife, but only when he felt it safe to acknowledge her. At his side when she could be, but never really with him. Part of his cause, but not, in the end, his cause. More than a helpmeet, less than a mate.
    Yet as she'd watched him these past few days, she couldn't help once more being impressed with him. This was the man she had fallen in love with as an impressionable girl; this was the man to whom she was now wedded as a mature woman. Victor was tall and well proportioned, with a noble head and kind eyes that had seen suffering she could not begin to fathom. He stood and moved with great dignity, as if responsibility for the fate of the world were resting on his shoulders. Who was to say that, at this moment in history, it wasn't? How she admired him!
    She knew as well how much she meant to him. Hadn't he risked his life for her, time and again? Even if he didn't let her be a part of it, didn't he always tell her how important she was to his work? Didn't he, from time to time, tell her how much he loved her? Her heart swelled with pride as she watched him, so stately and dignified, yet so intent and so commanding.
    Then she thought about Rick Blaine.   
    Had she done the right thing by leaving him notes, first in Casablanca and then in Lisbon? Had he even received them? Had he followed her and Victor, as