He recognized the advancing figure as that of an officer who had been present at the concert. He was reassured, but surprised. Why should the officer have left his companions. Besides, there was a much shorter route to the end of the quay where the big liners moored.
As the stranger was overtaking him, Paul turned again and met a propitiatory smile. "Excuse me," began the newcomer with a German accent, "I tried to catch you and thank you for your playing."
Paul smiled diffidently. "Danke sehr."
The stranger puffed out his cheeks, opened wide his little eyes, and raised his arms in kindly protest against the boy's modesty. "Aber, es war schön, wunderbar—fabelhaft!"
Paul was flattered in spite of himself. "I felt like playing," he deprecated. "That makes all the difference. I couldn't do it again, as well!"
The big officer, chuckling, linked his arm in Paul's and fell into step with him. The gesture was instinctive and Paul didn't in the least resent it, though usually he shrank from the contact of any but his most privileged friends. One afternoon in the paint locker Shorty had touched him and looked at him in a strange manner, and Paul had wriggled quickly away. In a flash his knowledge of the world had taken a long leap forward and endowed him with self-protective caution.
Along deserted ways they walked, speaking alternately English and German. The officer was curious, and asked paternal questions. He was thirty-five or forty years old, stout, blond, sunburnt to the colour of a saddle.
Fact by fact Paul related his history. Never had he been called on to give a chronological account of himself, and the necessity of reducing his past to a well-proportioned narrative pleasantly exercised his ingenuity, and also helped him towards an understanding of himself. Moreover, the stranger not only understood the motives
