Thea gave birth prematurely, in her seventh month of pregnancy, to a snub-nosed son. The doctors said the baby would survive. Thea lay in the maternity ward of the General Hospital, pale to the point of transparency. She was in high spirits, as always when in hospital, and treated her husband kindly. The child was already eight days old, and his name was Martin, Martin Gurdweill. Gurdweill came to the hospital every afternoon. He would wait for the visiting hour all the other hours of the day and night, which fed on it like parasites. But this precious hour, it soon transpired, was far shorter than an ordinary hour, two-thirds shorter at least, and no sooner had he entered the first ward, walked down the aisle between the two long rows of beds on either side, and gained the ward next to it, where Thea was lying, than the sing-song voice rose from the bottom of the courtyard, crying, ‘The vi-si-ting hour is ov-er!’ and once again he had not had time to feast his eyes properly on his son.