‘Nor do I,’ he said.
I had chilblains on my fingers. It was cold that afternoon, and raw, and they tingled and hurt. It was partly the chilblains that made me feel so wretched. I stretched my hands out to the fire.
George filled his pipe slowly, and lit it. The flame flickered up and down against his face as he drew it in. He grunted and threw the match away.
He said:
‘Hugo is a fool.’
I said:
‘I don’t know. He has a right to like it if he likes.’
George puffed away in silence for a time.
There was some of Mollie’s restfulness about George. It was good to have him in the room when one was troubled.
‘I am losing patience with Hugo,’ he said at last. ‘It is time he grew up.’