“Good morning,” then turned away again, and stripped the paper off the tray, glancing at the violet-coloured writing transferred, before he dropped the curled sheet aside among a heap.

Ursula watched him fascinated. In the gaslight and gloom and the narrowness of the room, all seemed unreal.

“Isn't it a nasty morning,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “it's not much of weather.”

But in here it seemed that neither morning nor weather really existed.

This place was timeless. He spoke in an occupied voice, like an echo. Ursula did not know what to say. She took off her waterproof.

“Am I early?” she asked.