The
grip of the coming crisis was upon him, and he seemed 'to carry the
world in his breast'
'Next year--next February--where shall we all be?' The question was
automatically suggested to him by the sight of the green buds of the
lilac trees In front of Whitehall Terrace.
'Oh, my dear Susan!--do look at those trees!'
Chicksands, startled from his own meditations, looked up to see two
old ladies gazing with an eager interest at a couple of plane trees,
which had just shed a profusion of bark and stood white and almost
naked in the grey London air. They were dear old ladies from some
distant country-side, with bonnets and fronts, and reticules, as
though they had just walked out of _Cranford_, and after gazing with
close attention at the plane trees near them they turned and looked
at all the other plane trees in Whitehall, which presented an
equally plucked and peeled appearance.
Then the one addressed as Susan laughed out--a happy, chuckling
laugh.
'Oh, I see! My dear Ellen, how clever people are now! They're
_camouflaged_--that's what it is--can't you see?--all the way down,
because of the raids!'
The admiring fervour of the voice was too much for Chicksands.
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