The Traitor Read Online Free PDF

n’est-ce-pas ?” Again she looked at him in a manner that made his heart melt.
    â€œMy God, Marie!” he cried, straining her to him again. “You’re marvellous—just marvellous!”
    â€œWhat do you do when I’m away?” asked Clinton after a moment.
    â€œWhat do I do, Alan? Why, I spend all the time thinking of you—that is what I do. I am always thinking of you. Do you remember that garden at Amiens?”
    â€œShall I ever forget it?” he exclaimed. “The first time I saw you—” He stared at the wall above her head. “Looking back, it’s all like a dream.”
    Her lips sought his mouth. “But this is real.”
    â€œYes,” he laughed, “there’s no dream about this. Come here, you witch.” He took a chair and pulled her down on to his knee.
    With a slim finger she traced imaginary lines on his forehead and face.
    â€œYou look worried, Alan—troubled. Is there anything wrong with you?”
    He sighed.
    â€œOh, life’s just a nightmare—has been for me lately, anyway.”
    â€œA nightmare?” Her face expressed surprise. “But you are not in the trenches. You have been home to England—or is it that you have told me lies?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t told you any lies. I’ve been back home all right. But”—breaking off—“look here, we mustn’t talk about the war!—It’s taboo— verboten .”
    She reproached him with a gesture.
    â€œâ€˜ Verboten’? That’s a German word. I hate it.”
    He laughed.
    â€œWell, come to that, ‘Boche’ sounds German too—but everybody’s using it.” A knock. “And here comes our champagne.”
    He unlocked the door.
    â€œThose dreadful Boches!” She shuddered. “They are trying to blow my beautiful Paris to bits. But do not worry yourself; let us drink this wine”—turning away and busying herself with the champagne which the waiter Pierre had now brought.
    â€œAnd don’t you worry about that: they won’t succeed, my dear.” He raised the glass she gave him.
    The words appeared to console her, for she placed her head on his shoulder while her arms crept round his neck.
    The departing waiter discreetly shut the door.
    â€œHow much longer is this terrible war going to last, Alan? When can we be together for always?”
    At that moment Clinton would have been prepared to sacrifice what remained of his marital honour; he would have liked nothing better than to escape with this enchantress to some distant part of the world, where they could spend the rest of their lives in peace. But this could not be thought of; it belonged to the realm of fantasy. With a jerk, he came back once again to reality. Once more he locked the door.
    â€œUntil we can get the Boche on the run, my dear,” he said, answering her question.
    â€œAnd when will that be?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œAsk me something easier.” A note of asperity crept into his voice.
    But she was not satisfied.
    â€œYou English are so wonderful. Even here in Paris they are relying on you to beat the Boche.” She looked up at his face and her lips pressed themselves against his cheek. “Haven’t your Generals anything—what you say?—up their sleeve?”
    â€œWell, as a matter of fact—” He stopped suddenly. Good God! What had he been about to say? He must be more careful.
    â€œWhat were you going to tell me, Alan?” she pressed.
    He disengaged the arms that were clinging to him and spoke seriously.
    â€œLook here, darling,” he told her, “we’ve simply got to stop talking about the war.”
    She made a little grimace.
    â€œIs it that you don’t trust me?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œThen tell me what this new work is you’re doing in London.”
    â€œYou mustn’t ask me that. It’s a