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Mr Furnival belonged to a club in St. James’s Street, and he confessed that as the war dragged on his affection for that corner of the City of Westminster grew more deep and old-mannish. So many things had been lost to him in the war, friends, his son, that sense of security that is so precious to a man who has passed his fiftieth year, and faith in the essential betterment of progress. Mr Furnival had kept his pink cheeks, but his beliefs and opinions were paler than they were. He was conscious of flux, change, a surge of newness that was very raw and strange. Therefore—perhaps—he loved clubland the better. What consoling names! Whites, Almacks, the Bath, the Carlton, the solid old Reform. You walked along Pall Mall, and entered into some place of pleasant and spacious security. You felt England round you, your own particular England. You sat intimately in some familiar chair, and saw the sunlight on London plane-trees. Cool, calm solidity, like that of Cornish caves on a still day, admitting the blue sea, but changelessly. The fruit was very raw on the trees these days, and Mr Furnival hated raw fruit.

Young St. George’s marriage—for instance! But ought one to let one’s teeth be set on edge by such rawness? Ought not one to remain mellow, yes, in spite of the sugar shortage? Vernor Street was not very far away, and Mr Furnival, smoking a cigar, and watching the white head of one of the old club-servants, felt moved towards Vernor Street. Why not call there, not as Mrs St. George’s lawyer, but as her son’s friend? Hang it all, he had known the boy in an Eton suit.

For life was still coloured for him by the spilt blood of his son, and though the decade’s mood might be a very raw one, Mr Furnival cherished his compassion. He felt more kindly towards Clara St. George’s son, and towards all the lads out yonder, and towards all young things. He was not suffering, like many men on the wrong side of fifty, from an attack of renewed youth which could make him jealous of these young men. He was profoundly touched and troubled by his wife’s tears.

So, he put on an irreproachable top-hat, and a pair of wash-leather gloves, and left his club for Vernor Street. It may be that Mrs Sarah was not wholly unknown to him—at least by reputation. He found her in her shop; it was the slack time of the day; the war was still at its lunch.

He raised his hat to her.

“Mrs Greenwood, I believe?”

Mrs Sarah smiled at him. She liked an English face such as Mr Furnival’s, and especially so under that glossy hat.

“Yes, I’m Mrs Greenwood.”

“My name’s Furnival. I’m an old friend of Alex St. George’s.”

Mrs Sarah continued to smile.

“And of Mrs St. George’s?”

“No. I don’t think I can call myself a friend of Mrs St. George’s. I have not attained—.”

“It must be rather like climbing Mont Blanc, Mr Furnival.”

They understood each other from the first. They were two Londoners, two very English souls, and for ten minutes Mr Furnival sat on one of the red cushions, and was conscious—while sitting on it—of Mrs St. George’s utter lack of the sense of humour. Mrs Sarah sat on another red cushion, effacing it completely under the solidity of her skirts.

“You are going to have trouble,” said Mr Furnival. “As a friend of Alex’s,—and as one who happens to know—.”

Mrs Sarah thanked him.

“This may be Canaan to you, Mr Furnival.”

“Not at all. I may be inquisitive, but I am not a spy. Quarrelling is such a waste of time and energy.”

“It’s more than that. It’s a pity. If Mrs St. George could see it like that—without seeing red! As it happens, I am rather proud of my girls. If a young fellow like Alex gets a girl who is good and wholesome and healthy, with a head on her shoulders and a pretty one at that,—what—in the name of the Prophet—?”

Mr Furnival said—“Exactly. My boy was killed three months ago. That rather cramps the fussiness of one’s social style. I would very much like to meet Alex’s wife.”

“And I—Mr Furnival—would like you to meet her.”

He was taken upstairs. He was introduced to Kitty. He sat on a chair, holding his hat and gloves, while Mrs Sarah returned to the shop, but presently he had put his hat and gloves on the table, and was lighting a cigarette. And Kitty sat there rather like a solemn child, talking to him very seriously about Alex. She understood Alex from capbadge to field-boots, and Mr Furnival began to realize why it was that she understood him as she did.

He had come with an open mind; he went away with a prejudiced one.

“After all,” he thought, “it ought to be humanly possible to make the best—of that.”