In the shops under the arches, in the market in the centre of the
Square, they were selling anemones.
"But have you any eggs?"
"No eggs this morning."
"Any butter?"
"None. There has been none these three days."
"A pot of condensed milk?"
"Mademoiselle, the train did not bring any."
"Must I eat anemones? Give me two bunches."
And round the Spanish Square the orange awnings protecting the empty shop-fronts shuddered and flapped, like a gay hat worn unsteadily when the stomach is empty.
What was there to do on a last day but look and note, and watch, and take one's leave? The buds against the twig-laced sky were larger than ever. To-morrow—the day after to-morrow … it would be spring in England, too!