Whatever was happening in his life, it did not include her. She might as well have gone back to the States, for the little she saw of him. And she found herself wondering now and then how Nick Burnham was holding up without his son, living in the enormous house on the Avenue Foch, all alone.

In fact, he was even more lonely than Liane. At least she had her daughters. He had no one at all. He had heard not a single word from Hillary since he'd left her on board the Aquitania in September. His only letters had been from Johnny, and one from his mother-in-law. All he could gather from what she told him was that Hillary was terribly busy in New York, and for some vague, undisclosed reason, Johnny was going to continue staying with her. Nick knew exactly what Hillary was up to. It was either Philip Markham, or someone else, but she didn't want to be saddled with her child, any more than she had wanted to the past summer. It turned Nick's stomach to think of the boy alone with his grandmother in Boston, but for the moment nothing could be done. He had planned to stay in Paris until after Christmas, but by the end of the week he knew that he couldn't go back yet. He had made a commitment he had to live up to, to assist the French. Now he hoped to be back in New York by April, though he didn't tell Johnny that when he wrote to him, not wanting to get the child's hopes up until he was sure. He just said soon. He cabled his office in New York to buy the boy a mountain of Christmas presents and have them delivered to Boston. It wasn't much of a replacement for a father or a mother, but it was something; it was all he could do for the moment. And it was more than he had in Paris on Christmas Day.

He stood alone in the paneled library, where he had once stood watching Johnny play in the garden, and now there was no one and nothing. The trees were bare, the garden was pale gray, there was no sound in the house … no Christmas tree … no carols … no shining face exploding with glee, digging through an overstuffed Christmas stocking. There was only the sound of his own footsteps as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, carrying the last bottle of brandy he had bought before the war, and praying for a few hours of oblivion, when he wouldn't be aching for his only son. But even the brandy didn't help, and he stopped after three stiff drinks. They were just enough to take the edge off and then he sat down to write Johnny a letter, telling him how much he missed him, and how next Christmas would be much better than this. Nick Burnham was grateful when at last night fell, and he drew the curtains, turned off the light, and went to sleep.





It created a kind of subterranean tension, coupled with a false sense of security that nothing would ever change. Armand went on with his constant secret meetings, and rather than being supportive, Liane was beginning to get annoyed. At least he could tell her something about what he was doing, she reasoned. He had always trusted her before, but it was clear that he didn't now. He went on with his mysterious war work, disappearing occasionally for a few days at a time. She would get a quiet call from his office, telling her only that Monsieur had gone out of town.