Hugo’s train was to leave at midnight.
We were silent in the darkness of the trees. The bitterness of ending was over our joy now.
We walked close together, bumping against each other as we walked. Hugo took my hand and held it, and we walked like children, holding hands. We passed out of the Park, and down the road, into the hurry and rush of Victoria Street, past the Underground Station, and under the vaulted roof of Victoria Station.
Smoke from the waiting trains swirled in white eddies under the shadowy roof. Whistles sounded: calling voices and heavy footsteps: the churning noise of engines, getting up steam, and the clanging of luggage barrows on the platforms.
There were soldiers everywhere; waiting groups, sitting and lounging about, loaded with their service kit; bags, rifles and helmets slung about them in a shapeless mass; tired, anxious faces, and joking voices; one was telling a story to a listening group; it seemed to be a funny story, for bursts of laughter interrupted him.
Hugo inquired about his train. No one seemed to know. We wandered from one official to another; there was no train to leave at midnight, they said.
At last some one came who knew about it; the leave train was postponed till the morning, at 7 a.m.
I felt an immense, disproportionate relief; I glanced at Hugo; he was looking at me with his whimsical, questioning expression.
‘Seven hours more,’ he said.
‘Seven hours,’ I repeated.