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performance of Fidelio was preceded by a speech about its dialectical significance by a young man with wavy hair who spoke with a strong provincial accent. He was very nervous and gabbled out his speech from a typescript. It consisted of a rigmarole about Marxist values and the meaning of art for the people. The audience waited in painful silence for it to end, and Methuen, watching the rows and rows of haggard faces from the box which had been placed at the Embassy’s disposal, felt once more a stirring of pity for the boisterous, good-natured lackadaisical Serbs he had once known. There were a number of smartly dressed officers in the stalls, but what was so striking was the shabbiness of the women. Their clothes looked like the hastily improvised remnants of a jumble sale; they wore no make-up, and there was hardly a head of waved hair. For the most part they wore their hair brushed stiffly back and pinned with a cheap bone slide. “There it is,” said Porson in a whisper, “drink it all in.”
    â€œI am,” said Methuen grimly.
    The young man on the stage spluttered to the end of his speech and stood aside; the lights began to tremble down. At this moment a spark of recognition flickered in a pair of dark eyes and Methuen sat up. There was a face he knew. For a moment he could not remember where he had met Vida—all he could remember was her name. And then, as he held her eyes with his and answered her look of recognition he remembered. In Bari at the end of the war she had served on his staff as an interpreter. Her father had been a noted Royalist diplomat and had died abroad. Vida had been brought up in France and had served in the Free French Forces throughout the war. She had been loaned to Methuen, and he had been most concerned to hear that she had returned to Yugoslavia after the liberation. Yet here she was, large as life, sitting with a half-smile of recognition on her face, not ten feet from him.
    He turned and whispered to Porson: “I think I see someone I know. Will you lend me your mackintosh and beret at the first interval? I might get a chance to speak to her.” Porson seemed rather startled but he agreed breathlessly. He could not resist adding: “For God’s sake be careful. She may be working for OZNA, you know.” But Methuen had already thought of that. Yet from what he knew of the old Vida, the serious dark-haired child of royalist Serbia, he was sure of one thing: she would not give him away.
    She seemed to be alone as she spoke to no one, and from time to time, even in the velvety half-light, Methuen could feel her eyes resting upon him. As the lights went up for the interval he stared hard at her and then rose; in the shadowy space at the back of the box he struggled into Porson’s mackintosh, and once he was in the corridor he put on the old grey beret which appeared to be the sixth secretary’s favourite defence against the rain. It was not ineffective as a disguise, for the mackintosh was old and shabby and hid his neat dark suit. Certainly he was not conspicuous in the shabby crowd which had already filled the foyer with the fumes of acrid cigarette-smoke. He shuffled across the marble floor and took up a position against a pillar, studying some notices of forthcoming productions. He did not as yet know whether Vida would come, and he was quite startled to feel the touch of her hand on his arm and hear her say in a low voice: “Zdravo, Comrade.” He greeted her without turning round, and together they stood examining the notices intently. At their backs stood a small group of students debating something with tolerable loudness; conversation was possible though he could feel from Vida’s tone of voice how afraid she was.
    â€œI need your help,” said Methuen in a low urgent voice. “What have you been doing since last we met?”
    â€œEverything,” she replied. “Now I am working for them , for the OZNA. My