‘No class at all! He’s still in a cot. He’s only so big —’ He showed her with his hands.

‘Ooh!’ The little girl pursed her mouth in disdain. (‘I’ll bet her mother does the same’ — the thought flashed through Gurdweill’s mind.) ‘So small! I don’t like such little boys. They’re so stupid!’

‘And haven’t you got a little brother that size?’

‘No! I don’t need one. They scream all day long!’

‘But my Martin doesn’t scream,’ said Gurdweill. ‘He only laughs!’

‘No!’ the child insisted, as if she were about to be presented with a baby brother against her will. Then she repented and added immediately: ‘But you can bring him here one day to show me. And if he doesn’t scream, he can come with me once in Uncle Rudolf’s car. I’ll tell Uncle Rudolf to let him come. But only once, and that’s all! Right, Fräulein? We can let the baby come in the car once. But if he shouts, then he can’t come anymore.

‘No, wait!’ She changed her mind again. ‘He can’t come now. Bring him another time. When we come back from our holiday. We’re leaving in two days’ time. Or maybe you’re going to Ischl too?’

‘No, I’m not going to Ischl. Probably somewhere else?’

For a moment he saw a little village nestling between towering mountains in his mind’s eye, and a quiet, gentle longing stirred in him to be there now with Thea and his son, Martin; to live in peace, safe from any threat of trouble, steeped in this afternoon’s loveliness forever.

‘Have you been to Ischl before?’ he asked.