The other night in Mecklenburgh Square, WCI, 'deux formes ont tout à l'heure passé'. One was a sardonic gentleman looking vaguely like D. H. Lawrence, the other a beautiful dark girl called Arabella Yorke. From their clothes I guessed we were in the autumn of 1917.I thought I heard the purr of a zeppelin, but then a gust of laughter billowed forth from No. 44 (the home of Aldington and H. D.) where a jolly gathering was swapping gossip, or possibly partners. John Cournos had gone off to Russia to see the Revolution, leaving behind his friend Arabella. It was a mistake. Nothing in the house would ever be the same again, and Arabella was the charming catalyst.

At this very moment she was returning from dinner in Soho: 'They turned at last into the old, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like a savage wilderness in the heart of London. The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild, dark grove deep in a forgotten land. She opened the gate of the Square garden with her key, and let it slam behind them . . . She led him across the grass to the big tree in the centre . . . They huddled against the big tree-trunk for shelter, and watched the scene. Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street gleamed silently. The houses of the Square rose like a cliff ...