"It's one-thirty," said Celia softly, achingly. "We were so worried."
"Let's go eat," I suggested, suddenly aware of hunger pangs.
"We already have, but it'll be much nicer this time."
We went to the tea room. Alongside was the sunken garden, with its dwarf trees and moist green grass and bubbling waterfall. Three or four pieces of ancient sculpture—smooth white marble of the Greeks—stood in the garden on pedestals. Somehow these had survived the destruction.
"Nothing else remained of the whole collection," said Celia sadly. "Renoirs, Rembrandts, Raphaels—all, all gone."
"I'm tired, mommy. Why can't we go home now?"
"After a while, dear. Poor kid! He's weary of looking at pictures, and so am I."
"Freddie," I asked, "why didn't you like to play games with the other children at school?" Celia glanced at me disapprovingly.
"Oh, I like to play games. But ... it just seems that when everyone's trying so hard to win ... it spoils the fun. You know."
"Leave him alone, Bart."