on Germany.

He went, not to his own flat, but straight to Maidstone Crescent. With
those few minutes in which his mother had known him, the stupor that had
beset his emotions all day passed off, and he felt himself longing, as
he had never longed before, for Sylvia's presence. Long ago he had given
her all that he knew of as himself; now there was a fresh gift. He had
to give her all that those moments had taught him. Even as already they
were knitted into him, made part of him, so must they be to her. . . .
And when they had shared that, when, like water gushing from a spring
she flooded him, there was that other news which he had seen on the
newsboards that they had to share together.

Sylvia had been alone all day with her mother; but, before Michael
arrived, Mrs. Falbe (after a few more encouraging remarks about war in
general, to the effect that Germany would soon beat France, and what a
blessing it was that England was an island) had taken her book up to her
room, and Sylvia was sitting alone in the deep dusk of the evening. She
did not even trouble to turn on the light, for she felt unable to apply
herself to any practical task, and she could think and take hold of
herself better in the dark. All day she had longed for Michael to come
to her, though she had not cared to see anybody else, and several times
she had rung him up, only to find that he was still out, supposedly
with his mother, for he had been summoned to her early that morning, and
since then no news had come of him. Just before dinner had arrived the
announcement of the declaration of war, and Sylvia sat now trying to
find some escape from the encompassing nightmare. She felt confused
and distracted with it; she could not think consecutively, but
only contemplate shudderingly the series of pictures that presented
themselves to her mind. Somewhere now, in the hosts of the Fatherland,
which was hers also, was Hermann, the brother who was part of herself.
When she thought of him, she seemed to be with him, to see the glint
of his rifle, to feel her heart on his heart, big with passionate
patriotism. She had no doubt that patriotism formed the essence of his
consciousness, and yet by now probably he knew that the land beloved by
him, where he had made his home, was at war with his own. She could not
but know how often his thoughts dwelled here in the dark quiet studio
where she sat, and where so many days of happiness had been passed. She
knew what s