‘Is it just the War?’ I wondered. ‘Is that what it is?’
I felt a passionate longing to talk to him of the War, of my soul and his, to help him and be helped.
Tea was over, and cleared away. We drew our chairs up to the fire. Nobody spoke much. Eleanor and Rachel played with wooden bricks on the floor behind us. Hugo helped them to build a little while, then he stood up to go. I went with him up the stairs into the hall.
I said:
‘Hugo, I must see you again.’
He stood looking up at me from the lower step.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When? Let us go and see some pictures.’
I said:
‘Yes; to-morrow, after lunch I will come.’
‘I will meet you at the station; at Charing Cross, at the Tube.’