The children’s hospital was not far and they soon arrived. It was growing dark; the sky was overcast and a cold autumn wind tore through the streets, blowing dry leaves into people’s faces. A stout nurse, her face beaming with kindliness, took Martin from him after they had written down the details of his birth and taken care of the other formalities in the hospital office, and she gave him back the empty blanket. All this was done with a machine-like speed, before giving Gurdweill a chance to feast his eyes for one more minute on his darling son. Now he regretted having brought him here, especially since he had been sleeping peacefully all the time, as if there were nothing wrong with him. And perhaps the doctor had made a mistake? Perhaps there really was nothing wrong with him? He went on standing indecisively in the office, his eyes on the ground. And suddenly the certain knowledge came to him that he had just done something terrible, which could never be undone. How could he have listened to the doctor and brought him here? Had he lost his wits? And Thea? She had agreed without batting an eyelash! With unpardonable indifference! He was flooded with hatred for Thea, as if she were personally responsible for the whole disaster.

He was just about to tell the nurse that he had changed his mind about leaving the baby in the hospital when she said, without raising her eyes, ‘Visiting hours are from ten to twelve in the morning, and two to six in the afternoon, for the mother. Other members of the family can only come in the afternoon, from two to four.’

And Gurdweill folded the blanket, put it under his arm, and left the hospital.