“You’ll excuse me asking, but I don’t like letting you go alone with a face like that. D’you know London?”
“No.”
“You’ll want breakfast.”
René realized that he was hungry. The porter took him to a pull-up in a noisy street, filled with the clang of tramcars and the roar and rattle of heavy drays coming from the goods yard. They had coffee and ham and great hunks of bread.
“I never see such a sleeper,” said the porter.
“I was tired, I think.”
That struck the porter as a good joke. He kept on chuckling to himself and saying:
“Tired? I should think you was. Tired! He says he was tired!”
Presently he became solemn and leaned across the deal-topped table.
“I can’t make you out, mate. I don’t know if you’re a gent or what. You’re from the North. It’s easy to see that. What is it? Trouble?”