rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No.

On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall:

I’m going round the corner. Be back in a minute.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added:

You don’t want anything for breakfast?

A sleepy soft grunt answered:

Mn.

No. She didn’t want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she