The violin had been brought into Mr. Britling’s study that afternoon, and lay upon the further window-seat.  Poor little broken sherd, poor little fragment of a shattered life!  It looked in its case like a baby in a coffin.

“I must write a letter to the old father and mother,” Mr. Britling thought.  “I can’t just send the poor little fiddle—­without a word.  In all this pitiful storm of witless hate—­surely there may be one greeting—­not hateful.

“From my blackness to yours,” said Mr. Britling aloud.  He would have to write it in English.  But even if they knew no English some one would be found to translate it to them.  He would have to write very plainly.

Section 4

He pushed aside the manuscript of “The Better Government of the World,” and began to write rather slowly, shaping his letters roundly and distinctly: 

    Dear Sir,

    I am writing this letter to you to tell you I am sending back the
    few little things I had kept for your son at his request when the
    war broke out.  I am sending them—­

Mr. Britling left that blank for the time until he could arrange the method of sending to the Norwegian intermediary.

Especially I am sending his violin, which he had asked me thrice to convey to you.  Either it is a gift from you or it symbolised many things for him that he connected with home and you.  I will have it packed with particular care, and I will do all in my power to ensure its safe arrival.

I want to tell you that all the stress and passion of this war has not made us here in Matching’s Easy forget our friend your son.  He was one of us, he had our affection, he had friends here who are still his friends.  We found him honourable and companionable, and we share something of your loss.  I have got together for you a few snapshots I chance to possess in which you will see him in the sunshine, and which will enable you perhaps to picture a little more definitely than you would otherwise do the life he led here.  There is one particularly that I have marked.  Our family is lunching out-of-doors, and you will see that next to your son is a youngster, a year or so his junior, who is touching glasses with him.  I have put a cross over his head.  He is my eldest son, he was very dear to me, and he too has been, killed in this war.  They are, you see, smiling very pleasantly at each other.

While writing this Mr. Britling had been struck by the thought of the photographs, and he had taken them out of the little drawer into which he was accustomed to thrust them.  He picked out the ones that showed the young German, but there were others, bright with sunshine, that were now charged with acquired significances; there were two showing the children and Teddy and Hugh and Cissie and Letty doing the goose step, and