Two
It was over two years before I returned to England. They were not easyyears. I wrote to Sophia and heard from her fairly frequently. Her letters,like mine, were not love letters. They were letters written to each other byclose friends—they dealt with ideas and thoughts and with comments onthe daily trend of life. Yet I know that as far as I was concerned, and I be-lieved as far as Sophia was concerned too, our feelings for each othergrew and strengthened.
I returned to England on a soft grey day in September. The leaves on thetrees were golden in the evening light. There were playful gusts¹ of wind.
From the airfield² I sent a telegram to Sophia.
“Just arrived back. Will you dine this evening Mario’s nine o’clockCharles.”
A couple of hours later I was sitting reading the Times; and scanning theBirths, Marriages and Deaths column my eye was caught by the name Le-onides:
On Sept. 19th, at Three Gables,
Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides,
beloved husband of Brenda Le-
onides, in his eighty-eighth year.
Deeply regretted.
There was another announcement immediately below:
Leonides — Suddenly, at his residence, Three Gables,Swinly Dean, Aristide Leonides. Deeply mourned by hisloving children and grandchildren. Flowers to St. Eldred’sChurch, Swinly Dean.
I found the two announcements rather curious. There seemed to havebeen some faulty staff work resulting in overlapping³. But my main preoc-cupation was Sophia. I hastily sent her a second telegram:
“Just seen news of your grandfather’s death. Very sorry.
Let me know when I can see you. Charles.”
A telegram from Sophia reached me at six o’clock at my father’s house.
It said:
“Will be at Mario’s nine o’clock. Sophia.”
The thought of meeting Sophia again made me both nervous and ex-cited. The time crept by with maddening slowness. I was at Mario’s wait-ing twenty minutes too early. Sophia herself was only five minutes late.
It is always a shock to meet again someone whom you have not seen fora long time but who has been very much present in your mind during thatperiod. When at last Sophia came through the swing doors our meetingseemed completely unreal. She was wearing black, and that, in some curi-ous way, startled me. Most other women were wearing black, but I got itinto my head that it was definitely mourning—and it surprised me thatSophia should be the kind of person who did wear black—even for a nearrelative.

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