‘Or perhaps conforming is the real villain. Falling in line, marrying Aubrey?’ Howard suggested. His tone deliberately light, not betraying just how firmly he believed it. Yet it was an audacious comment to make, even as a joke.

‘You are being rude, Mr Henderson.’

Howard didn’t agree. He was being honest, although no one ever wanted that. It wasn’t a century for honesty; the war had proved as much. He wondered whether there would ever be a place for honesty again. Whether there ever had been. He was not sentimental and refused to worship at the altar of mawkish claptrap that insisted the past was innocent, the future bleak. Both the past and the future were capable of both.

‘I take it you are here to tell me to fall in. You are trying to draw an analogy between your affair and my conscientious objection.’ She exasperated him even more than before.

‘Perhaps.’ She blushed. He wondered about the root of her colour. Possibly because he’d used the word ‘affair’, possibly because she was abashed at her own laborious, round-the-house approach to talking about anything that mattered. She must know he would appreciate her being more direct with him. Not that it was her fault, he reminded himself; women weren’t brought up to be anything other than coy. He didn’t want coyness from her. She could do more. Better.

‘What if it is this war itself, not my objection to it, that most resembles your love life?’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Both your marriage and the war are hurried, ill-considered botch-ups. Motivated by pride, orchestrated by old duffers and ultimately a sacrifice of the young. Just to save face.’

She stared at him aghast. For a moment he was astonished that he had uttered the words aloud; he had no right to. He had never been so brutally challenging to Beryl or any other woman. He’d never before felt a need, but he did here; he wanted to prise open her eyes. She put down her tea with great haste and leapt to her feet; the cup rattled in the saucer. She ran her hands down her dress, straightening it, and he noticed they were shaking. He almost admired her restraint; a chap would have hit him. ‘Don’t be absurd, there are no similarities. Haven’t I just told you that my marriage is a great success?’ She lifted her chin.

He stood up too. Their faces were just inches apart. He could hear her sharp, shallow breathing. Rather than making him feel repentant, it excited him; pushed him to be more extravagant. ‘As everyone will say of the war, if we win. Everyone, that is, except the dead.’

He’d gone too far. She looked stricken. ‘Of course there’s terrible sacrifice.’

‘What if the sacrifice is simply too terrible?’

‘Duty.’ She spat it out.

‘It’s just a word.’

‘A fine one. An important, emotive word.’

He tossed out one of his own. ‘Waste.’

She walked swiftly towards the door, put her hand on the handle but didn’t pull it open. Instead she paused, her forehead resting against the wood.