Growing rather tired and footsore they made their way to Piccadilly Circus, and so on to the Strand. Everywhere they found the same conditions: a few skeletons, a few deserted vehicles, young vegetation taking hold wherever a pinch of soil had found an abiding place, and over all a great silence. But food there was none that they were able to find, though it is probable that a careful investigation of cellars and underground places might have furnished some results. The more salient resources of London had been effectively pillaged so far as the West-end was concerned. They were too late.
In Trafalgar Square, Millie sat down and cried. Blanche made no attempt to comfort her, but sat wide eyed and wondering. Her mind was opening to new ideas. She was beginning to understand that London was incapable of supporting even the lives of three women; she was wrestling with the problem of existence. Every one had gone. Many had died; but many more, surely, must have fled into the country. She began to understand that she and her family must also fly into the country.
Millie still sobbed convulsively now and again.
“Oh! Chuck it, Mill,” said Blanche at last. “We’d better be getting home.”
Millie dabbed her eyes. “I’m starving,” she blubbered.
“Well, so am I,” returned Blanche. “That’s why I said we’d better get home. There’s nothing to eat here.”
“Is—is every one dead?”
“No, they’ve gone off into the country, and that’s what we’ve got to do.”
The younger girl sat up, put her hat straight, and blew her nose. “Isn’t it awful, B.?” she said.
Blanche pinched her lips together. “What are you putting your hat straight for?” she asked. “There’s no one to see you.”