It was a week or so later when they met again, and it was Eileen O’Connor who said “Good-morning” and made a remark about the weather.
He stopped, and answered with a look of pleasure and boyish surprise.
“It’s jolly to hear you say ‘Good-morning’ in English. Takes me straight back to Oxford before this atrocious war. Besides——”
Here he stopped and blushed.
“Besides what?” asked Eileen.
“Besides, it’s a long time since I talked to a lady. Among officers one hears nothing but war-talk—the last battle, the next battle, technical jargon, ‘shop,’ as the English say. It would be nice to talk about something else—art, music, poetry, ideas.”
She chaffed him a little, irresistibly.
“Oh, but you Germans have the monopoly of all that! Art, music, poetry, they are all absorbed into your Kultur—properly Germanised. As for ideas—what is not in German philosophy is not an idea.”
He looked profoundly hurt, said Eileen, “Some Germans are very narrow, very stupid, like some English perhaps. Not all of us believe that German Kultur is the only knowledge in the world.”
“Anyhow,” said Eileen O’Connor, “I’m Irish, so we needn’t argue about the difference between German and English philosophy.” He spoke as if quoting from a text-book.