‘Go on playing. Something of your own.’
He shook his head and said:
‘Oh, that’s all gone.’
What lines, what harshness the war had given his always furrowed face!
‘But it’ll come back.’
‘No. It was a feeble spark; and the God of battles has seen fit to snuff it. The war made some chaps poets—of sorts; but I never heard of it making anyone a musician.’
‘Well, you can still play.’
‘Oh, I strum. I strum.’ He sounded weary and disgusted. Was he saying to himself: ‘Christ! You bloody bore?’
‘I’d always feel—’ she struggled, ‘—compensated if I could strum as you do. Ever since I was little I’ve envied you to distraction.’
He cheered up a little and smiled, looking interested in the old way.