“Hullo.” A treble voice ventured from the blackness of the lower bunk. “Are we getting out soon?”

“Hullo,” Alleyn rejoined. “No, go to sleep.”

“I couldn’t be wakier. Matter of fac’ I’ve been awake pretty well all night.”

Alleyn groped for his shirt, staggered, barked his shin on the edge of his suitcase and swore under his breath.

“Because,” the treble voice continued, “if we aren’t getting out why are you dressing yourself?”

“To be ready for when we are.”

“I see,” said the voice. “Is Mummy getting ready for getting out, too?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“It’s not time.”

“Is she asleep?”

“I don’t know, old boy.”

“Then how do you know she’s not getting ready?”

“I don’t know, really. I just hope she’s not.”

“Why?”

“I want her to rest, and if you say why again I won’t answer.”

“I see.” There was a pause. The voice chuckled. “Why?” it asked.

Alleyn had found his shirt. He now discovered that he had put it on inside out. He took it off.

“If,” the voice pursued, “I said a sensible why, would you answer. Daddy?”

“It would have to be entirely sensible.”

“Why are you getting up in the dark?”

“I had hoped,” Alleyn said bitterly, “that all little boys were fast asleep and I didn’t want to wake them.”

“Because now you know they aren’t asleep so why—?”

“You’re perfectly right,” Alleyn said. The train rounded a curve and he ran with some violence against the door. He switched on the light and contemplated his son.

Ricky had the newly made look peculiar to little boys in bed. His dark hair hung sweetly over his forehead, his eyes shone and his cheeks and lips were brilliant. One would have said he was so new that his colours had not yet dried.