Eleanor was asleep in the garden in her perambulator. I left her and went out; up the road, towards the Heath.
The road seemed full of soldiers, blue wounded soldiers. All roads were full of them at this time and when I came nearer I saw that they were blind. I dreaded the blinded soldiers; I hated to see them, for I had an idea, somehow, I don’t know why, that Hugo might be blinded. I passed the blinded soldiers, and got beyond them to the Heath. The trees were coming out; light green buds on the branches; and there were crocuses in the grass.
The sun came down through the branches, and shone on the crocuses. It was a fine day, and warm for March. I sat on a seat, and thought about George, and I thought:
‘It is all very well for the flowers, and for the buds on the trees; they come again after the winter; they are born again. There will be other boys growing up, and other men, but never George again. If the world goes on for millions of years, there will never be anyone who is what he was.’
And a sense of wild anger and indignation possessed me. I felt:
‘This is wrong and wicked and a horrible mistake, this War that has killed George. What is it worth? What is it for? What can it ever achieve that will make up for him?’
And I felt:
‘It must be stopped. I have been asleep and woken up. I can’t let this War go on that has killed George.’
‘George killed! George dead!’ I repeated the words again. I felt as though the world had begun to reel, as though the foundations of my life had begun to crumble.
‘What next?