“Oh, don’t go yet, mother,” she said. “It is very early.”
It was clear that for some reason she did not want to be left alone with Michael, for never had she done this before. Nor did it avail anything now, for Mrs. Falbe, who was quite determined to pursue her reading without delay, moved towards the door.
“But I am sure Michael wants to talk to you, dear,” she said, “and you have not seen him all day. I think I shall go up to bed.”
Sylvia made no further effort to detain her, but when she had gone, the silence in which they had so often sat together had taken on a perfectly different quality.
“And what have you been doing?” she said. “Tell me about your day. No, don’t. I know it has all been concerned with war, and I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I dined with Aunt Barbara,” said Michael. “She sent you her love. She also wondered why you hadn’t been to see her for so long.”
Sylvia gave a short laugh, which had no touch of merriment in it.
“Did she really?” she asked. “I should have thought she could have guessed. She set every nerve in my body jangling last time I saw her by the way she talked about Germans. And then suddenly she pulled herself up and apologised, saying she had forgotten. That made it worse! Michael, when you are unhappy, kindness is even more intolerable than unkindness. I would sooner have Lady Barbara abusing my people than saying how sorry she is for me. Don’t let’s talk about it! Let’s do something. Will you play, or shall I sing? Let’s employ ourselves.”
Michael followed her lead.
“Ah, do sing,” he said. “It’s weeks since I have heard you sing.”