She turned, and walked slowly beside him, through a swing gate and along a little side path just wide enough for two, which meandered across a wide field to the water’s edge. It was full autumn—indeed verging on winter,—the trees were almost leafless and a chill wind blew through their branches. The river, so full of charm in the sunshine, had a dull glassy glare of cold grey on its surface and a tiny shiver ran through the veins of the Sentimentalist as she looked around her at the dreariness of the landscape which had been so fair and sunshiny in the spring.
“I hear you’ve been working at the V.A.D.,” he said, then, “Don’t you tire yourself! I won’t have it!”
She smiled, but the tears were very near her eyes.
“Won’t you?”
“No, I won’t,” he repeated, emphatically. “Where’s that old Philosopher of yours?”
“Oh, he’s at home, working at the dictionaries with Dad, as usual. He likes being here—you see it’s not very nice in London just now.”
“It’s never nice in my opinion,” replied Jack. “But if you mean air-raids and that sort of thing I rather like them! I think it’s what London wants. I shouldn’t mind if the whole place were bombed to smithereens!”
“Jack!”
He laughed at her horrified tone.
“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’ you mustn’t be cross with me! You don’t know London—I do! It’s a regular muck-heap—wants clearing badly. And cleared it will have to be before this war finishes. If it hadn’t been for muck-heap London, and muck-heap Berlin and other big cities like them, full of filth we should have had no war, at all. That’s so!”