“We spend the night at the club,” Hilary explained, his dimming mind tricked and held by the other man’s merciful game. “They’ll try to get us to stay in Park Street—that’s where mother’s town house is—but we’ll tell ’em we have to report to the Home Office. They can’t argue with the Home Office. It’s the best friend I have in the world. After dinner—we’ll have to have dinner with the family, you know—but after dinner we’ll go back to the club and have another hot bath and then read in bed—all the new magazines and papers—stacks of them. And then in the morning directly after breakfast we’ll take the train from Paddington—and we’ll be home in time for lunch. It’s a queer sort of place, you know, with a queer name. It’s called Nuns Farthing. Mother won’t live in it since my father died, and George—that’s my brother—George says it gives him the pip. They always threaten to let it, but nobody wants a place like that any more. You can’t keep maids because it’s too far from a cinema. There’s a housekeeper. She keeps it going when the family’s away. Mrs. Pilton will look after us. We’ll spend the night. There’s something I’ve got to do there—my old room is on the top floor—I left things strewn about, rather—I thought I was going back—it’s two years this month—I meant to go home—just lately it’s got terribly important to me to get back—I’m not very clear—I’ll know when I get there—something to look after—I don’t know why, but I must go back there before I die—”

“Of course you’ll go back, old boy! You leave it to us—little old R.A.F. We’ll get you back!” Dalton drew his numbing arms tighter round the spent body they supported, and his eyes swept the empty white-hot sky again, hopelessly.