He dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup and she said, "I only wanted one".
"Don’t stir it then". He raised his eyes to her face and said almost incredulously, "Even people like you don’t see how it looks to us".
"It", she thought, "it" is the war, English Canadian domination, English Canada’s attitude toward Great Britain and the Empire, English Canada’s outlook on the world, English Canada’s superiority, hypocrisy and ineffable Protestant self-righteousness.
"If you want to convince us that you really mean what you say about Nazism, and your ’democratic’ ideals, you’ve got to start at home by smashing the Orange Lodge in Toronto; you’ve got to stop exploiting French Canadian labor and let us control our own economic life instead of having you control it for us. And just to make it really impressive, you might take down a few of your ’Gentiles Only’ signs".
"As a French Canadian you’re hardly in a position to criticize us for being anti-Semitic".
René shrugged. "At least we don’t say one thing and do another".
Erica said nothing. She gathered up her gloves and her purse and her handkerchief, which had fallen on the floor, and getting up, René said, "I’m afraid I just smell another racket. Did you ever read about the last war, Eric, and how we were going to see that every nation got the raw materials it needed, how we were going to continue war-time co-operation after the war, and make a better world? You should. It’s very instructive".
"I don’t want to be instructed that way. You’re a Catholic, you ought to know that nothing can be accomplished without faith".
She got up and started toward the door, tired and discouraged for no reason at all, because René was only one person and everyone else she knew had, if not faith, at least a certain amount of hope.
On the pavement outside René put his hand on her arm and asked, "Where are you going?"
"Windsor Station. I told you, my sister’s arriving this afternoon".
"I’ve got to go home and see Madeleine".
There was a syringa bush which was just coming into blossom against the gray stone façade of a house across the street; she would have liked a sprig of it to hold in her hand and sniff at intervals on her way down to the station.
He said involuntarily, "I don’t want to leave you like this, Eric!"
Erica glanced up at him quickly and said, "It’s all right".
"No, it isn’t".
He went on standing there in the middle of the pavement, looking harassed and unhappy. Erica had forgotten how young he was, only thirty-three. He was usually so sure of himself that he seemed much older.
"I hate quarreling with people", said René. "Particularly you. I wish you’d forget everything I said…".
"I will if you’ll do something for me". She said, "I want a sprig of that syringa…".
The notice board in Windsor Station covered a great deal of wallspace, and she was standing in front of it, making a bet with herself that the Quebec train would arrive before she had succeeded in finding out when it was due and which track it would be on, when the unforgettable voice of three weeks before said from somewhere behind her, "Hello, Erica".
She caught her breath, then turned and said quite casually, "Hello, Marc, what are you doing here?"
"Meeting the train from Quebec".
"So am I. Is it late?"
He pointed to a smaller board headed "Special" and said, "It’s an hour late so far. By the way", he remarked, "you were looking at ’Departures’."
"Oh, was I?" Evidently he had been watching her for some time before he had spoken to her. He was in uniform, with two pips on his shoulders. As an elderly man in spectacles got between them, he altered his position slightly. He had not really smiled yet; she had no idea whether he was really glad to see her or not.
"Are you expecting someone too?"
"Yes, my sister Miriam. I haven’t seen her for three years, she’s been living in England".
With his green eyes fixed expressionlessly on her face, as though he were looking through her, he asked, "Where’s the rest of your family?"
"They’re away for the week-end".
He had his hands in his pockets and went on looking through her in silence, while Erica waited, forcing her eyes back to the long line of chalk figures running down the right-hand column on the notice board. She knew as definitely as if he had told her, that he was trying to make up his mind to go away, and that if he did, she would never see him again, but although she wanted him to stay so much, she would not turn toward him and smile, and try to influence him that way. She would not influence him at all.
To concentrate on something else and keep her eyes away from him was somehow to neutralize the effect of her own personality, and she went on counting the trains marked "Due at…" in order to arrive at a total which could, or could not be subtracted from the total marked "On Time".
"Erica", he said at last.
"Hello", said Erica, coming to a full stop at the figures 4.46. "I’m still here".
"Have you got anything to do for the next hour?"
"No. Have you?"
"Yes, but I’m not going to do it. Do you want to go somewhere and have a drink?"
"Well, I’ve just had lunch…".
"Let’s go over to Dominion Square then".
As they walked down the concourse he asked, "Where did you get the syringa?"
"It was a peace offering", said Erica, sniffing it.
They crossed the street, passed the line of horses and carriages, the only vehicles except bicycles which were allowed on Mount Royal, and then started over the grass toward Dorchester Street and the broad walk leading to the Boer War Memorial up at the other end of the square.
"I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but I’ve been up to my eyes in work for the past three weeks".
"I know". There were a few pigeons scattered along the walk and Erica threw them some corn from the bag which she had bought from the old gaspésien at noon and which was still half full. "René told me how busy you are".
A little further on she heard him remark dispassionately, "That excuse sounded even more feeble than I expected".
"You don’t have to make excuses", said Erica almost inaudibly.
"I wanted to call you".
They found an empty bench and sat down. For a moment neither of them said anything and then Erica asked, "Who are you meeting from Quebec?"
"My former boss, Mr. Aaronson. He’s been there on a case all week".
"What’s he like?"
"Mr. Aaronson?" He glanced at her absently, then at the old derelict sitting on the bench opposite them in the sunlight. Further down, on the next bench, there were three New Zealand airmen. If Marc had ever wondered what Mr. Aaronson was like, he had seldom tried to put it into words before, and with his eyes back at the derelict again he said finally, "Well, he’s about fifty-five or sixty, quite a lot shorter than I am and three times as big around the middle. He chews cigars all the time except when he’s in Court. He’s one of the best corporation lawyers in the city".
"Was he born here?"
"No, he was born in a Russian ghetto. His father never got much further than the push-cart stage when the family came over here but he somehow managed to scrape enough money together to send old Aaronson to England for part of his legal training. He’s been going back, whenever he could, ever since-sometimes on Privy Council cases and sometimes just on holidays. He’s completely nuts on the subject of England; he thinks it’s the only really civilized country in the world, and every time we get into a political discussion, it always ends up with Mr. Aaronson making a speech on the subject of the Pax Britannica. He’s a complete Imperialist".