between there and Kenwood. The latter was all that was left of the mighty forest that had once extended over the whole countryside; there were magnificent beech trees there, and a mansion which Margaret had seen between the trees, with an unusually large bomb-crater in the green sloping lawn immediately in front of the house. Now the mild sun beamed on the water in the crater and there were prints of children’s shoes in the soft mud round its sides. Those moonlit nights when the air had rung and quivered for hour after hour with the roar of guns and the horrifying whine of falling bombs, and the hot reek of explosives had stifled the sweet damp scents of autumn, seemed like a nightmare and were half-forgotten. Only in the hearts of the quiet cheerful people working on the allotments the memory was still alive, and when two or three of them got together for a cup of tea or a drink, the talk would sooner or later turn on The Blitz, and there were many of the women, with young children, who would never be the same again.
Margaret walked quickly, wondering if her clothes were suitable, and then scornfully telling herself that even if she did see Alexander Niland he wouldn’t notice what she was wearing, and then remembering that he was a painter and would naturally notice everything. She had tied her hair with the velvet bow and put on a dark-brown suit with a yellow and crimson handkerchief knotted under her chin, and her shoes and stockings were heavy and good, as were the shoes and stockings of most girls in England in those days. Her heart beat faster than usual and she was almost trembling; so much of her craving for a more beautiful and satisfying life took the form of wanting to meet interesting people that the possibility of meeting one, however briefly, excited her painfully. During her morning’s shopping she had found time to look up his name in a telephone directory and had found that he did live at Lamb Cottage! So this Hebe must be his wife, or perhaps his sister? No, she seemed to remember that he had painted several portraits of his wife. Hebe Niland. It was a strange name and Margaret thought it a beautiful one. Someone with that name started with an advantage lacked by someone named Margaret Steggles. I wonder what her name was before she was married? – thought Margaret. One thing, if ever I do marry I shall get rid of my name – though of course I might get landed with something even worse! But I shan’t marry, so why worry?
Her feeling for nature was the common one of sensitive temperaments which have suffered a blow; she found spring flowers and autumnal woods too beautiful to be borne, and a splendid sunset reminded her of Frank Kennett and made her want to cry. Now, as she ascended the last slopes leading to the Spaniard’s Walk, she was reminded, by the sight of a little wood of pine trees with a grey stone fountain at its edge, of a walk she had once taken with Frank. The dark-green branches kept up a soft solemn sighing against the cold blue sky, for the wind was rising. Unmistakable sound, never to be confused with that made by any leaf-shedding tree, as lonely and mysterious when issuing from this ragged and shabby little copse as when it sighs in the thinclear air above an Alpine precipice! That was the time he said I had a nice voice, thought Margaret, sighing in her turn. In a few moments she was walking down Hampstead High Street.
Hampstead was less picturesque than it looked from a distance. Like the rest of London, it needed painting; it had been bombed; its streets were disfigured by brick shelters and its walls by posters instructing the population how to deal with butterfly or incendiary bombs; most of its small shops which had sold antiques or home-made sweets or smart hats before the war were empty; and its narrow streets were crowded with foreigners, for the village and its lower districts of Belsize Park, St John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage had been taken over by the refugees,
Margaret walked quickly, wondering if her clothes were suitable, and then scornfully telling herself that even if she did see Alexander Niland he wouldn’t notice what she was wearing, and then remembering that he was a painter and would naturally notice everything. She had tied her hair with the velvet bow and put on a dark-brown suit with a yellow and crimson handkerchief knotted under her chin, and her shoes and stockings were heavy and good, as were the shoes and stockings of most girls in England in those days. Her heart beat faster than usual and she was almost trembling; so much of her craving for a more beautiful and satisfying life took the form of wanting to meet interesting people that the possibility of meeting one, however briefly, excited her painfully. During her morning’s shopping she had found time to look up his name in a telephone directory and had found that he did live at Lamb Cottage! So this Hebe must be his wife, or perhaps his sister? No, she seemed to remember that he had painted several portraits of his wife. Hebe Niland. It was a strange name and Margaret thought it a beautiful one. Someone with that name started with an advantage lacked by someone named Margaret Steggles. I wonder what her name was before she was married? – thought Margaret. One thing, if ever I do marry I shall get rid of my name – though of course I might get landed with something even worse! But I shan’t marry, so why worry?
Her feeling for nature was the common one of sensitive temperaments which have suffered a blow; she found spring flowers and autumnal woods too beautiful to be borne, and a splendid sunset reminded her of Frank Kennett and made her want to cry. Now, as she ascended the last slopes leading to the Spaniard’s Walk, she was reminded, by the sight of a little wood of pine trees with a grey stone fountain at its edge, of a walk she had once taken with Frank. The dark-green branches kept up a soft solemn sighing against the cold blue sky, for the wind was rising. Unmistakable sound, never to be confused with that made by any leaf-shedding tree, as lonely and mysterious when issuing from this ragged and shabby little copse as when it sighs in the thinclear air above an Alpine precipice! That was the time he said I had a nice voice, thought Margaret, sighing in her turn. In a few moments she was walking down Hampstead High Street.
Hampstead was less picturesque than it looked from a distance. Like the rest of London, it needed painting; it had been bombed; its streets were disfigured by brick shelters and its walls by posters instructing the population how to deal with butterfly or incendiary bombs; most of its small shops which had sold antiques or home-made sweets or smart hats before the war were empty; and its narrow streets were crowded with foreigners, for the village and its lower districts of Belsize Park, St John’s Wood and Swiss Cottage had been taken over by the refugees,
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