‘I can’t think about afterwards at all, Hugo. I can’t look ahead
at all beyond next week.’
We were silent then, looking out of the window at the rain in
the street. It pattered on the tops of omnibuses, on umbrellas,
on mackintoshes, on the grey paving stones. The humming noise
of the traffic rose up to us, muffled, through the double glass,
and all those people, and the hurry, and the busyness, seemed
very far away.
The waitress came to take our order; we asked for tea, and turned
back to the window.