The window of the baby's kingdom was tightly closed; the scent was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings, and--of other things.
Hilary looked at the baby, and the baby looked at him.

The eyes of that tiny scrap of grey humanity seemed saying: 'You are not my mother, I believe ?' He stooped down and touched its cheek.

The baby blinked its black eyes once.
'No,' it seemed, to say again, 'you are not my mother.' A lump rose in Hilary's throat; he turned and went downstairs.

Pausing outside the little model's door, he knocked, and, receiving no answer, turned the handle.

The little square room was empty; it was neat and clean enough, with a pink-flowered paper of comparatively modern date.
Through its open window could be seen a pear-tree in full bloom.