. . . Anyhow, his career had not been unworthy, and his small dinner parties in various parts of the world had even been notable--until the break in his life that occurred during the Second World War.

It was this, when it came, that had persuaded him to send Gerald, then aged five, to spend the rest of the war years in America. During such a regrettable but prudent exile Charles had written to his son regularly every week, and once, being on a mission that had sent him across the Atlantic in the autumn of 1941, he had been able to spend a convenient weekend with the Fuesslis at Parson's Corner, Connecticut.

The Fuesslis were connections of his wife's--genial people in the wholesale hardware business, comfortably off, and innocent enough to be proud of having an Englishman who was in Who's Who as their house guest. They made him as welcome as they had made Gerald, and Charles knew he owed them a debt he could never repay. True, the boy seemed to be acquiring a slight American accent, but perhaps this was unavoidable--he would unlearn it later when he came home, for of course the Germans would be defeated eventually; one took that for granted. For the time being it had been and still would be undeniably reassuring to think of him safe and sound and well fed, while his father breakfasted on Spam and put out incendiary bombs on Whitehall roofs.

Another thing that troubled Charles slightly during his brief visit to Parson's Corner was that the Fuesslis seemed to have odd ideas of how to treat a youngster. On the night that Charles arrived at their house it was doubtless excusable that Gerald should be allowed to stay up past his usual bedtime, but it seemed strange to Charles to have to sit at the dinner table not only with his own youngster but with the Fuesslis' daughter Louise, aged three. He ascribed it to the kindness of his hosts and the natural good manners of both children that such an extraordinary situation passed without untoward incident.

But an even odder thing happened on the day following. It was a Sunday, and the Fuesslis could think of nothing better to do than drive a hundred miles to nowhere in particular along roads crowded with other Americans doing the same thing. Charles and Gerald were placed together in the back seat of the Buick, and the boy, who certainly seemed happy enough, pointed out many local landmarks, such as Woodrow Wilson High, the new Sears Roebuck, and the place where a holdup man had recently been shot in a police chase. Towards evening Charles was beginning to feel hungry, the more so as lunch had been of the picnic variety, eaten in the car too hurriedly to be enjoyed. He was still thinking about a good dinner when the car turned into the parking area of what was apparently a large and popular roadside restaurant.

'I hope you like sea-food,' said Mr. Fuessli, as they walked their way amongst innumerable cars towards an entrance festooned with life-belts.

'Sea-food? . . . Er . . . fish, that is? Oh yes, I do, indeed.' (Which was true enough, though this 'sea-food' set Charles thinking that he also enjoyed 'land-food', if such a term could be used to describe a really delicious entrecôte, or perhaps the poulet sauté américain, which was, he supposed, the nearest approach to a national dish.)

'Then I can promise you something worth waiting for,' continued Mr. Fuessli, pushing into the lobby.

It soon became clear to Charles that 'waiting for' had been no idle phrase; for the place was crowded, the restaurateur did not greet them, no table had been reserved, and there were twenty or thirty patrons standing in line for the next one available.

'I guess you have to stand in line for EVERYTHING in England,' said Mrs. Fuessli.

'I believe my housekeeper does it very often,' answered Charles, gently.

Not by a word or gesture did he convey his real emotions, and the only additional comment he permitted himself was at the spectacle of so many children waiting--and by no means all of them good- mannered like Gerald and Louise. 'These youngsters,' said Charles tentatively. 'They--er--they don't . . . their parents, I mean . . .