Howard saw the exchange too. ‘Blasted generals. If they saw that, could they still give the cry?’ He squeezed her hand, uncomfortably tight. His lips were almost on her ear; the heat of his body ran the length of hers. She wished she could soothe him. Save him.

‘Why do you hate the generals so? Everyone else respects them.’

‘People don’t know any better. I’m in a unique position. I’ve seen what it’s like out there. The generals may mean well, but their patriotism is idealistic, bordering on foolish. They are simply dangerously arrogant.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It wasn’t enough, but it was all she had. He understood and shrugged, accepting her.

‘It’s just taking so long.’ He sighed. ‘It’s unbearable knowing what is going on out there. Knowing that what I saw is still happening, night after night, week after week. Months. Years. Think what else we could have done in that time. Women could have fought for the vote. They might have had it now. Anyone could have studied for a degree. Children could have been born and half raised, crops planted, homes built. All we’ve done is destroy.’

They continued to sway rhythmically but were not attempting to step. People were forced to dance around them. Some did so gracefully, not breaking their step; others mumbled objections that they were not moving with the flow and rudely bumped up against them. ‘I don’t believe anyone can win a war like this.’ Howard let out a grave, despairing sigh.

‘What you mean is it will just go on and on until there are no men left at all to fight.’

‘Possibly. Hate wins. Destruction wins. I need a drink.’

That night, as they lay in bed, satiated, stimulated, she asked him to tell her of his experiences at the Front. She had no idea. No one spoke of it, and the newspapers offered nothing other than lists of names of dead men or names of towns she struggled to find on a map.

He shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘I do,’ she insisted gently. ‘I want to know what it’s been like for you. Everything. I want to understand.’

He told her how he had got to France with his strange journalist friend and a bag of cash for bribes. He mentioned particular towns and the length of time he spent billeted, and he admitted there was a lot of death and injury. He would not say more and she felt he had confided nothing. Not really. For the first time since they had become lovers, she got the sense that he was cutting her off, keeping her at a distance, and whilst she understood that he was no doubt protecting her, she still resented it. His views on the war were perhaps the defining thing about him as a man; they had met because of them, they had argued because of them. How could he think to keep the full and true explanation from her? She felt the slight sting of being patronised, and decided to push ahead. ‘So how long were you at the Front?’