'Yes, yes,' said Victoria sympathetically. The similarity of deaths among the middle classes! Every woman in the regiment had told her that 'these things make you realise' when Dicky died. 'But what about you? Are you still in—in cement?'
'In cement!' Jack's lip curled. 'The day my father died I was out of cement. It's rather awful, you know, to think that my freedom depended on his death.'
'Oh, no, life depends on death,' said Victoria smoothly. 'Besides, we are members of one another; and when, like you, Jack, we are a minority, we suffer.'
Holt looked at her doubtfully. He did not quite understand her; she had hardened, he thought.
'No,' he went on, 'I've done with the business. They turned it into a limited liability company a month ago. I'm a director because the others say they must have a Holt in it; but directors never do anything, you know.'
'And you are going to do like the charwoman, going to do nothing, nothing for ever?'
'No, I don't say that. I've been writing—verses you know, and some sketches.'
'Writing? You must be happy now, Jack. Of course you'll let me see them? Are they published?'
'Yes. At least Amershams will bring out some sonnets of mine next month.'
'And are you going to pass the rest of your life writing sonnets?'