Afterward, at the wedding breakfast, Elfriede makes halting conversation with Mr. Benedict Thorpe, Wilfred’s father, angular and brown-haired and shy, the sort of man who would much rather be reading a book or walking a dog. Other than his height, Wilfred seems to favor his Scotch mother, whose hair’s even brighter than his, though her eyes are more green than blue. She’s also the most effusive Scot in the history of the nation, not dour at all as Elfriede had imagined from Wilfred’s hints. “And he never said a word, not a blessed word,” she exclaims on the terrace of the officers’ mess, gallantly lent for the occasion, while Elfriede strains to understand her. “Of course he had his lady friends, he’s always been popular with the feminine sort, but my goodness, a German girl! I beg your pardon, I’ve nothing against Germany, splendid music, but I never imagined—well, and a widow! A baroness! Never a word until we had the telegram from Berlin a fortnight ago. And you’re a beauty, how splendid. God knows the family could stand a bit more beauty. I was so cross when Wilfie turned out ginger. I’d hoped by marrying a dark-haired Englishman that the stain would quite go away, but it’s like madness in the family, you know, like a bad penny. I should have loved a daughter with hair like yours. How quiet and charming you are! I can see now how he worships you. He’s utterly bewitched! What a difference in him. But how naughty, to say nothing to us about it, nothing at all!” And so on.

A bit later, when Wilfred’s fellow officers are giving the toasts and everybody’s in stitches with laughter, Elfriede glances at her new mother-in-law and discovers she’s not laughing at all. She’s staring at Elfriede, or rather she seems to have been staring, because she looks swiftly away and releases an enormous bray of amusement. And yet, for an instant, Elfriede has the uncanny idea that she has been appraised in the way you might appraise a racehorse, with a pair of hard, calculating eyes.

Because Wilfred’s got only thirty-six hours away from his duties, and because neither of them wish to leave Johann with a stranger, they spend their wedding night in the small, hastily let stone cottage that’s to serve as their temporary home. “We’ve already had our honeymoon, anyway,” Wilfred points out, as they sit before the fire and share the bottle of champagne presented to them by Mr. Cholmondeley at the end of the day. Johann’s asleep in his room upstairs, and because it’s Scotland, even in August, a soft rain drums on the windows.

“Yes, we had a lovely honeymoon,” Elfriede replies.

Wilfred sets down his glass, crushes out his cigarette, and kneels before her. His hands, gathering hers, are large and dry, like the paws of a bear.