“Today.”
“Why did you never write?”
“I could find nothing to say.”
“Why was there nothing to say?”
“I don’t know. Why are there no daffodils now?”
“No.”
Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It had gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly.
“Was it good for you, to be alone?” she asked.
“Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a good deal. Did you do anything important?”
“No. I looked at England, and thought I’d done with it.”