‘Those are terrible pictures—they make one remember and think——’
Hugo stared at me, with sombre, unseeing eyes.
‘Yes, they make one think,’ he repeated.
We walked out into the street; I kept my hand on his arm: I felt
dizzy, and still frightened at my own thoughts and feelings,
and almost frightened of him.
As we turned into Piccadilly the rain came on more heavily, beating
and pattering against our faces; we remembered suddenly that
we had left our umbrellas in the gallery; we turned and hurried
back again.
When we came out for the second time, we were calmer, and more
established.
We turned into the nearest tea shop, Stewart’s, at the corner
of Bond Street, and went upstairs. There was an empty table by
the window; we went to it and sat down.
Hugo leaned his chin on his hands, and looked across at me.
He said:
‘That is a wicked picture, Helen,——do you know what it is to
want peace?’