Mollie was kneeling on the floor beside me. She took John from me, and laid him on a cushion. She made up the fire and put the kettle on to boil. Then she rubbed my hands, and asked me questions, in her low, quiet voice, that I had not heard for so long. And I lay back and watched her, as she moved about the room, and I felt in a strange dream, as though the past had come back.
I said:
‘Hugo is dead.’
She said:
‘I know. I heard from his mother.’ Her clear eyes darkened: ‘And you?’
I said:
‘Oh, that is all . . .’
Mollie was looking at me, and I looked at the fire.
‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘Poor Helen!’
I said: