‘Long time,’ he said. He used as few words as possible because with every one he uttered it was as if he squandered a measure of his dwindling capital. Nurse Kettle placed herself where he could see and hear her easily, and said: ‘Doctor Mark says the Colonel will be here quite soon. He’s been fishing.’

‘Luck?’

‘I don’t know. He’ll tell you.’

‘Old’n.’

‘Ah,’ said Nurse Kettle comfortably, ‘they won’t catch him in a hurry.’

The wraith of a chuckle drifted up from the bed and was followed by an anxious sigh. She looked closely at the face that seemed during that day to have receded from its own bones.

‘All right?’ she asked.

The lacklustre eyes searched hers. ‘Papers?’ the voice asked.

‘I found them just where you said. They’re on the table over there.’

‘Here.’

‘If it makes you feel more comfortable.’ She moved into the shadows at the far end of the great room and returned carrying a package, tied and sealed, which she put on his bedside table.

‘Memoirs,’ he whispered.

‘Fancy,’ said Nurse Kettle. ‘There must be a deal of work in them. I think it’s lovely to be an author. And now I’m going to leave you to have a little rest.’

She bent down and looked at him. He stared back anxiously. She nodded and smiled, and then moved away and took up an illustrated paper. For a time there were no sounds in the great bedroom but the breathing of the patient and the rustle of a turned page.

The door opened. Nurse Kettle stood up and put her hands behind her back as Mark Lacklander came into the room. He was followed by Colonel Cartarette.

‘All right, Nurse?’ Mark asked quietly.

‘Pretty much,’ she murmured. ‘Fretting. He’ll be glad to see the Colonel.’

‘I’ll just have a word with him first.’

He walked down the room to the enormous bed. His grandfather stared anxiously up at him and Mark, taking the restless old hand in his, said at once: ‘Here’s the Colonel, Grandfather. You’re quite ready for him, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Now.’

‘Right.’ Mark kept his fingers on his grandfather’s wrist. Colonel Cartarette straightened his shoulders and joined him.

‘Hallo, Cartarette,’ said Sir Harold so loudly and clearly that Nurse Kettle made a little exclamation. ‘Nice of you to come.’

‘Hallo, sir,’ said the Colonel who was by twenty-five years the younger. ‘Sorry you’re feeling so cheap. Mark says you want to see me.’

‘Yes.’ The eyes turned towards the bedside table. ‘Those things,’ he said. ‘Take them, will you? Now.’

‘They’re the memoirs,’ Mark said.

‘Do you want me to read them?’ Cartarette asked, stooping over the bed.

‘If you will.’ There was a pause. Mark put the package into Colonel Cartarette’s hands. The old man’s eyes watched in what seemed to be an agony of interest.