'It's Cotter. He's struggling with a trunk and some sort of package. Shall I help you, Cotter? What are you bringing up?'

'Managing quite well,' was Cotter's oblique reply from three floors below.

'But what on earth-?' Next to her, Lady Helen felt St James move sharply away from the door. He returned to his work as if the interruption had not occurred and Cotter were not in need of assistance.

And then she was given the explanation. As Cotter manoeuvred his burdens across the first landing, a shaft of light from the window illuminated a broad sticker affixed to the trunk. Even from the top floor, Lady Helen could read the black print across it: D. Cotter/USA. Deborah was returning, and quite soon by the look of it. Yet, as if this all were not occurring, St James devoted himself to his fibres and slides. He bent over a microscope, adjusting its focus.

Lady Helen descended the stairs. Cotter waved her off.

'I c'n manage,' he said. 'Don't trouble yourself.'

'I want the trouble. As much as do you.'

Cotter smiled at her reply, for his labours were born of a father's love for his returning child, and Lady Helen knew it. He handed over the broad flat package which he had been attempting to carry under his arm. His hold on the trunk he would not relinquish.

'Deborah's coming home?' Lady Helen kept her voice low. Cotter did likewise.

'She is. Tonight.'

'Simon never said a word.'

Cotter readjusted his grip on the trunk. 'Not likely to, is 'e?' he responded grimly.

They climbed the remaining flights of stairs. Cotter shouldered the trunk into his daughter's bedroom to the left of the landing, while Lady Helen paused at the door to the lab. She leaned the package against the wall, tapping her fingers against it thoughtfully as she observed her friend. St James did not look up from his work.

That had always been his most effective defence. Work-tables and microscopes became ramparts which no-one could scale, incessant labour a narcotic that dulled the pain of loss.