Chapter I: January 7th, 1926

I am writing this down because Jo says I must—dear, beautiful Jo, with the great grey eyes and the maddening mouth. I tell her it is ridiculous—that in a short month the miracle will have sunk to a coincidence, the marvel to a curiosity. But she will have none of it: and, since she is leaning over my shoulder and has set her blessed cheek against mine, for what the business is worth down it shall go.

Last night we dined with the Meurices. Not of choice, but we agreed it was politic. A refusal might have been thought bilious. It is hard to see how, but it might. After all, I have been perfectly frank about my resignation. Now that I am married, I cannot stay on if I am not to be paid two-thirds of what I can earn elsewhere. And ‘The Office’ has been equally frank and, while expressing its deepest regret, has said that fifteen hundred for a spy is as much as it may afford. However, the Meurices being, so to speak, brass hats, might have misconstrued our refusal. So we went. We did not enjoy it. I cannot keep pace with these diplomats. No doubt they’re good at their job, and all their ice-and-brandy ways are probably part of the game. But I am a regimental officer and I am not at ease hobnobbing with the gilded staff. I don’t suppose they’ld ’ve been at their ease drinking with the shunters at Carlsruhe. . . . But there you are. _Chacun à son goût._

Well, after dinner a girl—one Roach—was induced to tell our fortunes by dealing cards from a pack. ‘Induced’ is misleading. Lady Meurice said, “Sarah, you’ve had a good dinner: now tell us some lies.” And Sarah replied, “’And me the seaweed, Lulu, and I’ll tell you where Arthur wore the dog-bite.” The next minute she was off.

I’ve heard some junk in my time . . .

Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the cards and began the rites of prophecy.

What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand, holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the smoke of her cigarette.

“You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see them at all.”

“Will they do me good or harm?”

“I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else. It’s a terrific influence.”

“In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?”

She frowned.

“Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.”

“Concrete?” said I.

“Physical. Theirs on you will be mental. They’ll get off first. After they’ve influenced you, you start in on them. I should think——”

Mercifully at that moment Berwick Perowne was announced. As he was straight from Moscow, the conjuring went by the board. I was rather interested to see him—I’d heard so much. He’ld certainly do any staff credit—a dazzling A.D.C. The face of a careless angel, a tongue of silver, the impudence of the Fiend. His news left Jo and me gasping. He gave it as though he were describing a game of Bridge. After a while we made our excuses and left. . . .

All the way home in the taxi Jo chattered about ‘the prophecy,’ till at last I told her that it meant that a nicer man than I was going to steal her away, and I was going to follow and break his back. . . . She put her arms round my neck.

Bugle was waiting for us when we got in: he’s a good little dog: he’s never really happy unless we’re both of us there.

Sitting by the fire in the study, we discussed my resignation. Now that the War’s past, I should have been at home a good deal—actually at home with Jo. But we really cannot throw away twelve hundred and fifty a year. Not that I shall have that yet—I start at fifteen hundred: but in a year or two . . . with luck . . . And it means so much. It means a car, frocks, flowers about the house. . . . Jo’s eyes were like stars. I think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.

But I digress.

‘The Office’ rang up in the morning and wanted me down at once. I answered the telephone in my pyjamas. Jo was twittering with excitement. I found her, wrapped in a towel, hanging over the banisters, wild to know if it was ‘the prophecy.’ I tried to scold her, but she refused to be rebuked—as it happens, with good reason.

_The prophecy, or some of it, has been fulfilled._

At ‘The Office’ I was introduced to Sir George ——, a nervous little man with a short leg. He used to be in the game, and came back to help at ‘The Office’ during the War. Shortly, it is his wish to be permitted to supplement my old pay so that it reaches my figure—two thousand seven fifty a year. He considers it would be a pity for ‘The Office’ to lose my services: he understands my position: and, provided I agree to remain, he will hand the Treasury sufficient War Stock to pay twelve fifty a year, such money to be paid to me quarterly while I do my job and, when I retire, to be added to my pension. . . .

I tried my best to thank him, but I kept seeing the stars in Jo’s dear eyes. . . .

There. I have set out the miracle. As Sarah Roach said, so it has fallen out. I have met the person I was on the eve of meeting. By him my life is to be influenced to an amazing extent. My existence is to be changed. Instead of being a partner in a shipping firm, I shall go back to my own old job. My outlook has been switched from bills of lading to that exhilarating game of blind man’s buff. Instead of lunching in the City and arranging about freights, I shall be studying men and the ways of men, peering into their brain-pans, searching their hearts, watching and waiting and coping with sudden issues, stalking the truth under strange heavens, trying to beat Delusion at her own game. . . . More. Sir George is doing it indirectly—through somebody else: and I shall hardly see him at all.

It remains to be seen how I am to influence him . . . even more strongly . . . directly . . . physically.

Sufficient unto the day is the perfection thereof.

And now we are going out to look at a car fit for a queen to drive . . . my queen . . . my darling Jo. . . .