My! Wasn’t that hall cold! The cold seemed to come leaping at them from the floor. It clasped the peaked knees of Edith and Emily; it leapt high as the fluttering heart of Father. For a moment they hesitated, drew together, almost gasped. But then out from the Bureau a cheerful young person, her smiling face spotted with mosquito bites, ran to meet them, and welcomed them with such real enthusiasm (in English too) that the chill first moment was forgotten. “Aw-yes. Aw-yes. I can let you ave very naice rooms on de firs floor wid a lif. Two rooms and bart and dressing-room for de chentleman. Beautiful rooms wid sun but nort too hot. Very naice. Till tomorrow. I taike you. If you please. It is dis way. You are tired wid the churney? Launch is at half-pas tvelf. Hort worter? Aw-yes. It is wid de bart. If you please.” Father and the girls were drawn by her cheerful smiles and becks and nods along a cloister-like corridor, into the lift and up, until she flung open a heavy, dark door and stood aside for them to enter. “It is a suite,” she explained. “Wid a hall and tree doors.” Quickly she opened them. “Now I gaw to see when your luggage is gum.” And she went. “Well!” cried Emily. Edith stared. Father craned his thin, old neck, looking, too. “Did you—ever see the like, Edith?” cried Emily, in a little rush. And Edith softly clasped her hands. Softly she sang “No, I never did, Emily. I’ve never seen anything just like this before.” “Sims to me a nice room,” quavered Father, still hovering. “Do you girls wanna change it?” Change it! “Why, Father dear, it’s just the loveliest thing we’ve ever set eyes on, isn’t it, Emily? Sit down, Father dear, sit down in the armchair.” Father’s pale claws gripped the velvet arms. He lowered himself, he sank with an old man’s quick sigh. Edith still stood, as if bewitched, at the door. But Emily ran over to the window and leaned out, quite girlish.... For a long time now—for how long?—for countless ages—Father and the girls had been on the wing. Nice, Montreux, Biarritz, Naples, Mentone, Lake Maggiore, they had seen them all and many, many more. And still they beat on, beat on, flying as if unwearied, never stopping anywhere for long. But the truth was—Oh, better not enquire what the truth was. Better not ask what it was that kept them going. Or why the only word that daunted Father was the word—home.... Home! To sit around, doing nothing, listening to the clock, counting up the years, thinking back ... thinking! To stay fixed in one place as if waiting for something or somebody. No! no! Better far to be blown over the earth like the husk, like the withered pod that the wind carries and drops and bears off again. “Are you ready, girls?” “Yes, Father dear.” “Then we’d better be off if we’re to make that train.”