‘Oh, Hugo, is it possible that all this is only three years?’
Hugo looked up with his hesitating smile.
‘Three years has not much meaning now,’ he said, ‘has it? We
didn’t know anything then; we hadn’t begun. We don’t know much
now; afterwards, if we can go through with it till the end, we
may know something, perhaps.’
He added abruptly:
‘I am sorry for you, Helen.’
‘And I, for you,’ I said.
‘It is the same for us both, in a way; for everybody, I suppose.’
‘No, not quite everybody, I think; but for you and me. I am glad
we have met again, Hugo, so glad.’
He put out his hand across the table and took mine.
‘I wondered if you would come to-day,’ he said.
The waitress had brought our tea and put it down, but we had
not noticed her.
There was to us both, I think, great consolation in this clasping
of hands: strength and companionship in a world of destruction.
After tea we went out in the rain, and walked in the Green Park.
We walked up and down, backwards and forwards, talking a little,
not very much, of casual, trivial things; comforted and upheld
by each other’s nearness.
At last we went back to the station, and Hugo saw me into the
train.