‘Poor George,’ said Walter, and he sighed again.
At last the day came, and a note from Hugo, at Yearsly. He would be in London that morning, by twelve o’clock; crossing that night to France.
I took the next train. I left the children in the care of Mrs. Simms.
Hugo was there to meet me; he had come straight from Waterloo. We lunched together, and then we walked in the Park.
This day it was fine. A clear, cold winter’s day, with tiny transparent clouds, high up in a pale sky. We walked quickly, rejoicing in the cold air and the warmth of walking.
Then we went to the National Gallery. Most of the pictures were hidden away in bomb-proof cellars; that was a disappointment; but we were happy to-day.
We went to tea with Grandmother, at Campden Hill Square; we enjoyed the familiarity of the room, of the atmosphere, and the china, and the cat.
The hours passed; how we did not know. It was evening already, and we stood on the steps of the ‘Coliseum,’ going in to the Russian Ballet. It was the Scarlatti Ballet, ‘The Good Humoured Ladies,’ that we saw. The music and the dancing excited us; it was perfect. All was perfect, on this most wonderful of days.
We left the lighted theatre, and went out . . . out into the dark night and the shaded streets.
We made our way across Trafalgar Square, bare and empty in the shadow, through the Admiralty Arch again, and across the Green Park.