She resumed her excavation with the little stick, with the tears running down her face.

Mr. Britling presently went on with the talk.  “For me it came all at once, without a doubt or a hope.  I hoped until the last that nothing would touch Hugh.  And then it was like a black shutter falling—­in an instant....”

He considered.  “Hugh, too, seems just round the corner at times.  But at times, it’s a blank place....

“At times,” said Mr. Britling, “I feel nothing but astonishment.  The whole thing becomes incredible.  Just as for weeks after the war began I couldn’t believe that a big modern nation could really go to war—­seriously—­with its whole heart....  And they have killed Teddy and Hugh....

“They have killed millions.  Millions—­who had fathers and mothers and wives and sweethearts....”

Section 8

“Somehow I can’t talk about this to Edith.  It is ridiculous, I know.  But in some way I can’t....  It isn’t fair to her.  If I could, I would....  Quite soon after we were married I ceased to talk to her.  I mean talking really and simply—­as I do to you.  And it’s never come back.  I don’t know why....  And particularly I can’t talk to her of Hugh....  Little things, little shadows of criticism, but enough to make it impossible....  And I go about thinking about Hugh, and what has happened to him sometimes... as though I was stifling.”

Letty compared her case.

“I don’t want to talk about Teddy—­not a word.”

“That’s queer....  But perhaps—­a son is different.  Now I come to think of it—­I’ve never talked of Mary....  Not to any one ever.  I’ve never thought of that before.  But I haven’t.  I couldn’t.  No.  Losing a lover, that’s a thing for oneself.  I’ve been through that, you see.  But a son’s more outside you.  Altogether.  And more your own making.  It’s not losing a thing in you; it’s losing a hope and a pride....  Once when I was a little boy I did a drawing very carefully.  It took me a long time....  And a big boy tore it up.  For no particular reason.  Just out of cruelty....  That—­that was exactly like losing Hugh....”

Letty reflected.

“No,” she confessed, “I’m more selfish than that.”

“It isn’t selfish,” said Mr. Britling.  “But it’s a different thing.  It’s less intimate, and more personally important.”

“I have just thought, ‘He’s gone.  He’s gone.’  Sometimes, do you know, I have felt quite angry with him.  Why need he have gone—­so soon?”

Mr. Britling nodded understandingly.

“I’m not angry.  I’m not depressed.  I’m just bitterly hurt by the ending of something I had hoped to watch—­always—­all my life,” he said.  “I don’t know how it is between most fathers and sons, but I admired Hugh.  I found exquisite things in him.  I doubt if other people saw them.  He was quiet.  He seemed clumsy.  But he had an extraordinary