‘Oh come on! Perry!’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get you to your room. People will be getting up soon, we don’t want them to see you like this.’

Perry’s perfect mouth turned down again. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘They don’t care. Everyone knows I’m not as good as George. No one expects me to be as good as George. No one likes me as much as they liked him.’

I nodded to the maid and we grabbed hold of an arm each and turned him around to face the stairs.

‘Everyone loved George,’ Perry said glumly.

The maid and I went up two steps and then, borne back by the dead weight of Perry, we went back one.

‘He was the image of my papa,’ Perry said. ‘And my papa loved him like his own son.’

We made a bit of ground while Perry considered this, nearly as far as the first landing. But Perry grabbed at the banister and turned to explain to me. ‘He was his son, you see,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘I know, Perry,’ I said soothingly. We got hold of him again and started the ascent up to the next landing.

‘I am too,’ Perry said sadly. ‘It just didn’t seem so important.’

I was watching his feet in the expensive boots. He was half-walking, half-dragged by us.

‘Papa always said I looked like Mama. Not like him,’ he said. ‘He said I looked like a girl. He used to call me little Miss Peregrine.’

This time it was me who stopped, it cost us a few steps downwards.

‘What?’ I said.

‘He called me Pretty Miss Peregrine,’ Perry said. ‘I never got the feeling he really liked me. Sent me away to school when I was six. Never had me home for the holidays when he was there. All over the place I was. Scotland, London, even France one holiday. Never home with him and George.’ The tears had overflowed and his face was wet. ‘Once George and Papa were dead I thought it would be different,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I just don’t look like a lord.’

‘You do!’ I said fiercely. ‘You do look like a lord. You look like an angel, Perry. You are the best-looking man I know. And if you could stay sober you would be a really good man.’

‘You think so?’ Perry looked a little brighter. ‘Well, I think I might be.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But I’d rather be a drunk,’ he said.

We were at his bedroom door now and the maid and I pushed him through.

‘Should we take his boots off?’ I asked her.

She dipped me a curtsey. ‘Please’m, I’m not allowed in the bedrooms,’ she said.