“Everything. When you’ve read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realize just what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly, and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That was fashion, too. They weren’t any happier or heartier than we are. And we’re not any more miserable than they were. It’s all fashion, I tell you. After the last war, we went in for sex. Now it’s all frustration. None of it matters. Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I got cold feet and shied off. Because you won’t help me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Talk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and he’s dead and so you’ve shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adored him, and he’s dead. Well, other girls’ husbands are dead—lots of them—and some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, and cry a bit when they’re drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with you so that they’ll feel better. It’s one way of getting over it, I suppose. You’ve got to get over it, Phillipa. You’re young—and you’re extremely lovely—and I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me about him.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We met and got married.”

“You must have been very young.”

“Too young.”

“Then you weren’t happy with him? Go on, Phillipa.”

“There’s nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy as most people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. He—he was killed in Italy.”

“And now there’s Harry?”

“And now there’s Harry.”

“I like Harry. He’s a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What about it, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go on writing my book and in the holidays we’ll leave off working and enjoy ourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. She can fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripey books, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. That’s the worst. Will you try it?”

Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with an anxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and he was regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.

“No,” said Phillipa.

“Definitely—no?”

“Definitely no.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Is that all?”

“No, you don’t know anything about anything.”

Edmund considered.

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But who does? Phillipa, my adored one—” He broke off.

A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.

“Pekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)