"Yes . . . I have one . . . abroad, I don’t know where. What do you . . .”
The man sat down at their table. He started vaguely: “Well, it’s just this, you see . . .” Then, suddenly raising his eyes, he said:
“I am your brother.” Boura felt an immense confused joy.
“Really you? Really?"
The man was smiling. “Yes, really. How are you?”
He was using the more formal mode of address, instead of the second person singular usual among brothers or intimate friends.
“You . . . Why do you speak like that?”
“Lack of habit, I suppose,” replied the man with an attempt at a cordial smile, but his face remained watchful. With his finger he sketched out the contour of Boura’s features:
“Mother,” he said, “Mother all over . . .”
“I should never have recognised you,” Boura went on eagerly. “My God, after all these years. Let me have a good look at you. You are like Father . . . yes, like Father.”
“That is quite possible.”
Boura was rejoicing. “What luck! It is by sheer chance we came in here, I and . . . my friend Holecek.”
“Delighted, Sir,” said the man with dignity, tendering Holecek his large, hot hand.
“And, what are you doing?” asked Boura, with a certain hesitation.
“Nothing. I am on a business journey. I have a thing on hand over there, in the South, an industrial undertaking. I just thought I would take a turn round here in our own countryside.”
“True . . . you have not been here since our parents died. The old home has been pulled down and they have set up something in its place, a school I think, something ugly anyway, a brick building. I went in and they asked me what I wanted there. The people were so stupid; seemed to know nothing at all. But, opposite, there still
