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noticed, crackled and said, “Yes?” making her jump.
    â€œMy mother sent me to get the book.”
    â€œPush the door,” said the tube breathily, “and go up the stairs. The door at the far end of the landing. It is unlocked.”
    The Victoria Private Hotel, within, was sunk in a deep (childless and dogless) silence. Maria climbed two flights of stairs, thickly carpeted, and found herself on a wide landing, confronted by many closed doors. The one at the far end did indeed have a further nameplate beside it saying Shand. She opened the door and went in.
    Her first impression was that there was some kind of machinery at work. A small room, furnished only with a mirror and a marble-topped table, opened into another, larger one, and from the large one came a confusion of rhythmical noises, and, almost at once, Mrs Shand’s voice saying, “Please come through here.”
    It was not machinery, but clocks. Mrs Shand sat on a large padded sofa (reminiscent of the ones in the drawing-room over the road) in the middle of a room otherwise furnished largely with clocks. There were other paddedchairs, and small wobbly tables, and glass-fronted bookcases, and a very large fern in a pot, and many pictures, but the clocks dominated. They were mostly grandfather clocks, half a dozen of them at least, standing around the walls like so many tall, insistent presences, ticking like an ill-assorted orchestra, all at odds with one another, some slow, some fast, some urgent, some with a halting note as though they would stop if only they could. She stared round at them in wonder, and they ticked at her in their different voices and at their different speeds, turning upon her their various faces. For they were all different. There were faces sternly simple and faces painted with flowers, a face ornately patterned in brass, a face above which a galleon rocked ceaselessly against a painted sea. Ten to two, said one, five to six, another – half past seven, twelve o’clock… The hands were all at odds. A muted argument about the time raged from one side of the room to another.
    â€œThe book is on the table,” said Mrs Shand. “Please be careful. There are some valuable ornaments about.” She was working on a piece of embroidery. Gingerly, Maria approached a small, unsteady table (which lurched as she came near it) and took the book. Mrs Shand, over a needle she was threading, gave her a critical look.
    â€œOf course,” she said, “in my day a little girl wouldwear a frock. Nowadays all children wear trousers, so that for the life of me I cannot tell the difference. Not that it seems to matter any more. Enjoying your holidays?”
    â€œYes, thank you,” said Maria.
    â€œThere’s nothing like the seaside, is there?”
    Maria could think of no answer to this that would not lead the conversation into another dead end, so she said nothing. In any case it was clearly not a real question, for Mrs Shand had turned away to hunt for something in the sewing-basket beside her. Maria wondered if she might go now, but Mrs Shand suddenly said, re-emerging from the sewing-basket, “I daresay you would like a chocolate.”
    Maria was not, as it happened, particularly fond of chocolate, but could think of no way to refuse, so she said, “Yes, please.”
    â€œThe silver box on the desk,” said Mrs Shand. “The soft centres are on the right-hand side.”
    There was a silence, invaded only by the ticking of the clocks, while Maria ate her chocolate (it tasted rather unpleasantly of violets) and Mrs Shand threaded her needle with a long length of pink silk.
    â€œThe clocks were my grandfather’s collection. They will go to a museum when I die.”
    This remark, also, was not one that could be followedup with any success. Maria finished her chocolate (with some relief) and said, “How do you know what the right time is?”
    â€œThere is always the