There was the occasion, the first on which Michael had been present, when two eminent actors imitated each other; another when Francis came and made himself so immensely agreeable.

It was after that one that Sylvia and Hermann had sat and talked in front of the stove, discussing, as Sylvia laughed to remember, what she would say when Michael proposed to her.

Then had come the break in Michael's attendances and, as Sylvia allowed, a certain falling-off in gaiety.
"But it was really Hermann and I who made you gay originally," she said.
"We take a wonderful deal of credit for that." All this was as completely natural for them as was the impromptu meal, and soon without effort Michael spoke of his mother again, and presently afterwards of the news of war.

But with him by her side Sylvia found her courage come back to her; the news itself, all that it certainly implied, and all the horror that it held, no longer filled her with the sense that it was impossibly terrible.

Michael did not diminish the awfulness of it, but he gave her the power of looking out bravely at it.
Nor did he shrink from speaking of all that had been to her so grim a nightmare.
"You haven't heard from Hermann ?" he asked.
"No.