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Mr St. George’s taxi turned into Cardigan Square. A brown kit-bag and a green canvas valise were piled beside the driver, and Mr St. George sat with his little white cane between his knees, and his eyes looking out at the trees and the houses.

He could see No. 77, its green area railings, white steps, mahogany door, brass knocker, white window-sashes, old-gold curtains. It looked just as it had looked when as a youngster of seven he had played in the square garden, and trundled a hoop across a roadway innocent of taxis, and had fallen up the white steps and blooded one of his knees. And old Cummins—dear old Cummins—had picked up her “Lamb”, and carried him up to the bathroom.

Yes,—the house was just the same, and yet how different, because the world was different, and he was going out to France, and he was afraid. He could not get warm. And it seemed to him that No. 77 had a new, flat, chilly surface, an air of austerity. It looked all buttoned up to the chin in its smoky brickwork.

He got out of the taxi. Some one had been waiting, for the door opened immediately and he saw the glimmer of Cummins’ round spectacles, and the two patches of bright colour over her high cheek-bones. The taxi-man was handling the kit-bag and valise, and doing it cheerfully, a thing that he would not have done for a civilian.

“Hallo,—Cummins—.”

Cummins’ face had a tremulous look.

“O,—Mr Alex—.”

He was still her “Lamb”. She wanted to put her arms round him and call him “my dear”. He had been such a lovable child. And he was going out to the front, and she felt quite sure that he was not fit to go.

“Mater in—?”

“Upstairs, sir—.”

The passage-hall gave him an impression of darkness. He laid his cap and stick on the oak table, and heard the tall clock with the brass face ticking as it had always ticked. He saw the stairs, and the red pile carpet and the brass rods, and the faded “prints” hanging on the cream walls. The taxi-man was breathing hard over the luggage.

“Carry it up, sir?”

“Will you—? I’d be obliged to you—.”

The man shouldered the valise, and Cummins came to take Mr Alex’s British warm. She felt towards him just as she had felt when she had helped him off with his little overcoat when he had come back from school. She wanted to burst into tears.

“Better show the chap up,—Cummins.”

“Yes, Mr Alex—.”

“And pay him, will you? Here’s some money.—Give him a two-bob tip. I’ll go on up.”

He ascended the stairs, and they felt soft under his feet, and yet everything about the house had a strangeness. It was so quiet, so muffled,—and somehow it felt so cold. On the landing the same oak chest with its heraldic panels stood under the landing window, with the same blue-and-white faience bowl upon it. The old-gold curtains framed a view of the square.

He opened the drawing-room door. His mother was seated at her desk, with letters and papers spread under her hands. She rose. She stood beside her chair, a restrained and dignified figure, acknowledging no impulse, and no hurried breathing, her white face apparently serene. There was no lighting up of her eyes.

She said—

... “Well,—you are a little late—.”

For a moment they stood looking at each other, and in that moment something seemed to die away out of the son’s eyes. It was as though a shadow had passed over his face. He gave a faint smile. He seemed to move forward with a slightly self-conscious awkwardness. He went and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Yes,—just a bit. Trains—not what they were.”

“Quite—.”

“I’ve got six days—.”

“Yes,—so you said.—I’ve waited for tea.—Will you ring,—my dear.”

He seemed to give her a momentary, flinching glance, and then went and rang the bell. His eyes had a sudden, inward look. It was as though he had been running towards some expected pleasure, and had been flung back by a closing door. He had a feeling of bafflement, emptiness. That miserable and dolorous chilliness that he carried about inside him seemed to spread till he felt it in his spine and in his feet. He glanced at the brass tea-tray, sat down, and picked up the poker, and prodded the fire.

“Not quite so cold as it has been—.”

Mrs St. George had resumed her seat at her desk, and was addressing an envelope.

“No,—distinctly warmer.—But cool—. I’m afraid, my dear, we can’t manage a fire in your room—.”

“O,—that’s all right, mater.”

“These restrictions are rather boring—.”

“Very.”

He stole a look at her. He saw her pen give that final, decisive streak below the address upon the envelope. He wondered.—He had a kind of frozen feeling.—Why didn’t—? But then he remembered that his mother had never stooped to impulse, that he had never run and clung about her knees, that always her pale head had been carried high in the air, unbendingly. But—did she not know—or understand—? How a chap felt—? How—he—felt? But—then—of course—gentlemen,—English public-school boys—.

He stared at the fire. He stretched out his hands to it, while Mrs St. George blotted the envelope and affixed a stamp with perfect precision in the right upper corner.

No,—she would not allow emotion to intrude upon such an occasion. It was un-English, or un-English according to her code. Emotion was a nuisance, unseemly, like a kettle boiling over or a common child screaming. It did not help things. It upset your dignity. And after all, dignity was essential, calmness in the face of undisciplined circumstance. Dignity was of use. It carried you through awkward moments. She was not going to harrow her son or herself, make things worse by sentimentalizing over them. It made things seem worse than they were. She would send her son to France just as she had sent him off to school. For somehow it seemed to her that she would feel more sure of getting him back if she let him go as though the war was a gentlemanly and sedate business, not to be taken with tears and a gulp.