And then: "Veronica, do you think I ought to enlist?"
The thought was beginning to obsess him.
"No," she said; "you're different.
"I know how you feel about it. Nicky's heart and soul are in the War. If he's killed it can only kill his body. Your soul isn't in it. It would kill your soul."
"It's killing it now, killing everything I care for."
"Killing everything we all care for, except the things it can't kill."
That was one Sunday evening in October. They were standing together on the long terrace under the house wall. Before them, a little to the right, on the edge of the lawn, the great ash-tree rose over the garden. The curved and dipping branches swayed and swung in a low wind that moved like quiet water.
"Michael," she said, "do look what's happening to that tree."
"I see," he said.
It made him sad to look at the tree; it made him sad to look at Veronica--because both the tree and Veronica were beautiful.