“Is that all? Is that what all the fuss is about?”

“In his hand. He wasn’t hurt, really. I only had that titchy pen­knife you gave me.”

“You should have stuck it in the bastard’s guts,” I said, smiling with relief.

“You’re not angry, Daddy?”

“Angry? What else could you do?”

“They said I was a murderer. They said I wasn’t English.” The tears were still flowing.

“Who the hell cares, Harry? You did right. If anyone tries to push you around—” I stopped; I could see that for the time being he’d exhausted his stock of courage.

“You won’t send me back there, will you, Daddy?”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” I said. “If you still don’t want to go back, then I promise that you won’t go back.”

“Daddy. Your handkerchief.” He gave me it back.

“Sure you won’t need it?”

“I’ve got one of my own.” He sniffed. “Yours pongs, Daddy.”

Norah had washed and ironed it last night and this morning as she put it in my breast pocket had, in one of her skittish moods, dabbed it with eau-de-Cologne. The handkerchief was initialled, the letter J being so placed that it was on display dead centre when it was in the breast pocket. Like the eau-de-Cologne it was a present from Norah: I hadn’t wanted to wear it either with or without scent, but she had insisted that I did. I put it in my trouser pocket.

“It’ll wash,” I said. “Good night, Harry.”

“Daddy, come here.”

“You’re as bad as Barbara,” I said. “What now?”

“Daddy, I don’t have to work for grandfather, do I?”

“I think we can defer consideration of that for a few years yet,” I said. “What’s put it into your head?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought you were keen on it.”

“I thought you were,” I said.

“You thought I liked that rotten old school,” he said accusingly. “Everybody thinks they know what I like better than I do.”

I straightened his pillows.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said. “Your mother and I will work something out.” I ruffled his hair. “Go to sleep, son.”

When I went into the drawing-room Susan was busy with a letter at the writing-desk. She turned her head as I came in.

“Have you solved the mystery?” she asked.

I told her, briefly.

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

“I wish I were,” I said, sadly.

She lit a cigarette. “You’ve succeeded where we’ve all failed, haven’t you?” She exhaled noisily. “That letter’s to his headmaster. I might as well tear it up now.”

“I promised him he wouldn’t go back.”

“That’s very easy to promise. Not that they’ll necessarily want him back.”

“I promised him,” I said.