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Americans are absolutely shocked at the bombings, and they are so eager to help the people who have been bombed out, especially the children. I understand people hang onto Ed Murrow’s every word.”
    â€œThat’s so generous,” Priscilla said softly. “Do you know, if we—if England—make it through the war, we are going to owe so much to Americans, and to people like you, who have given so much of their time and money, too.” She paused and looked at Catharine inquiringly. “It’s so wonderful of you to care so much for children when you have no children of your own. You don’t have children, do you?”
    Catharine sat very still, her face absolutely empty. She could see Charles’s face so clearly. He was standing in his crib, his small hands tight on the bar, his head thrown back, and he was laughing. He was the master of his kingdom. And then he would lift his arms to her. She would pick him up and feel his warmth and solidness and the soft, sweet tickle of his breath against her cheek. He had wispy blond hair and the darkest, deepest blue eyes, laughing eyes. Charles had laughed so often.
    The pain, the familiar, aching, hideous pain, swept through her.
    Catharine bent forward to pour Priscilla another cup of tea. Catharine’s black hair fell forward, hiding her face. “No,” she said numbly, “I don’t have any children.” Was it a lie? But she didn’t have Charles. Not anymore. “Won’t you have another cup of tea?”
    â€œOh, yes, please,” Priscilla said cheerfully. “But, really, I do think it’s marvelous of Americans such as you who have no children to be so concerned about the survival of other people’s children. I don’t know what the War Relief Society would do . . . I say, watch that—”
    Catharine stared at Priscilla’s cup, full to the brim, overflowing. “Oh, yes. Sorry. I was thinking of something else. Tell me, when do you leave for the States?”
    â€œSoon, I hope, but they don’t tell you very far in advance. It depends upon when a convoy is scheduled and, of course, if I’m lucky enough to get a spot, but the government does realize how important the Society’s work is.”
    â€œI know your trip will be a success,” Catharine said. She didn’t, of course, mention the danger of an Atlantic crossing and the marauding German wolf packs. Some things, so many things, one didn’t mention now. “I have a friend in Philadelphia who . . .”
    The sirens began to shrill, the familiar, sickening up-and-down wail.
    â€œ. . . will be sure to help you.” Catharine told Priscilla about Sophie Connors; Catharine was pleased that her voice didn’t change or waver.
    Priscilla answered just as evenly.
    As they talked, Catharine looked curiously at her guest. What did Priscilla really think and feel behind those mild, myopic eyes? She was so perfectly of her class and time; earnest, sincere, well-bred. Where was the human being behind that even, controlled voice? Was she afraid?
    The heavy, broken drone of the bombers was so loud now that Priscilla raised her voice to be heard; yet neither of them mentioned the attacking planes.
    Catharine pictured a bomb striking, the swirl of dust and the rattle of falling masonry. Somewhere in London people were dying, people who had expected to live this day.
    Catharine’s throat felt dry as dust. Where was Jack now? Was he safe? Oh, God, she hated the terror that ached inside her, and she realized that for the first time since Charles’s death, she’d permitted herself to care for someone, to be vulnerable to the pain, once again, of loss.
    Catharine felt the familiar weakening wash of fear. As always she wondered if she were the only one so terribly, horribly afraid? Priscilla sat there so primly, balancing her full cup of tea on her lap, talking, on and on.
    Then