‘Yes.’
‘I know. I’ll be back in a minute.’
She ran up the stairs. Dimmed light streamed through a door ajar in front of her. It was the room where Julian and Charlie had slept years ago. Softly she pushed the door open.
Julian sat by the window with the child on his knees. He had thrown a shawl over his head and out of its folds the pale face peeped, owl-like and still. In his little night-suit he looked absurd and touching.
Julian raised a face so haggard and suffering that she paused, half-ashamed, uncertain what to say or do.
‘Come in, Judith,’ he said.
‘Only for a minute.... Won’t he sleep?’
‘No. I think he’s feverish. He got a fright, waking up alone. He’s very nervous.’
He bent over the child, rocking him, patting his shoulder.
‘I expect he’s just playing up. You ought to put him back in his cot.’