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have all that cable with him if he was a burglar,” Jordan said reasonably. He looked out the window. “The sun’s out,” he remarked, in an awed voice.
    After lunch Jane came with a friend named Tom and took Eric and Bruce to Hyde Park. Feeling quiet and peaceful, Jordan and Mark and I went to sit on folding chairs in Mrs. Stackpole’s small but charming back garden. Paved in red brick and edged with flowers, it was surrounded with a ten-foot-high fence of wooden palings fastened together tightly and sharpened to murderous fangs all along the top.
    â€œI don’t think anyone could get in here,” I said. “Why do we have to use all those burglar locks on the garden door?”
    â€œI think Mrs. Stackpole is odd on the subject of locks,” Jordan said.
    We sat in the sun. I never sat in the sun at home; here I felt starved for sunlight. It had been gray and raining all week. The ground was very wet; the heat brought out huge black flies, and bees which hovered over the brilliant flowers. Steam rose around us.
    â€œIt’s like a jungle out here,” Mark said. He listened a moment as we sat stiffly on our folding chairs, our knees touching. A stillness pervaded everything. “Where
is
everybody?” he asked, nervously.
    â€œIt’s quiet on Saturday afternoon in Knightsbridge,” Jordan said. “All the shops are closed.”
    â€œQuiet!” Mark said. “I’ll say it’s quiet. Aren’t there even any little kids?”
    A ghostly sound of childish laughter floated through the air. Jordan rose and tried to peer through the fence palings, standing on tiptoe.
    â€œHow … old … are … you?” he called, in a high, lingering, eerie voice.
    â€œI was ten …” Mark called back, “in eighteen fifty-six …”
    We discovered that we were becoming rather depressed.
    â€œI’m supposed to go to Battersea with Vincent,” Mark said. Vincent was one of Jordan’s employees: he was fifteen, the same age as Mark and vaguely Asian in appearance.
    â€œThat’s nice, dear,” I said, pleased that my boy had made a friend. Mark went off in the general direction of the Knightsbridge Underground station.
    â€œLet’s take a walk,” Jordan said brightly.
    I don’t normally drink, except at parties, but I said that I really thought I could use a drink.
    â€œYou can’t be served for an hour or two,” Jordan said apologetically.
    We went into the house, which was cold and damp, and locked all the windows and the French door with the little black and gold keys that Mrs. Stackpole had left us for this purpose. There were four locks on the French door alone. Luckily the sun was still shining when we emerged into the street. We walked slowly toward the square. Children were playing in the little gated private park.
    We paused and stared over the iron fence. “Listen, our kids could play with those children there,” Jordan said, becoming excited.
    I felt an odd doubt. “We haven’t got a key,” I said.
    â€œDr. Bott will have one,” Jordan said. “He lives right over there, across the square—didn’t I tell you about Dr. Bott? He’s awfully nice. I went to him with my knee, and when I burnt my hand…”
    â€œBut …” I said.
    â€œGood old Dr. Bott,” Jordan said fondly. He began to move toward the row of houses on the opposite side of the square.
    I hung back. “Let’s not,” I said. “I don’t want to ask him.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” Jordan said testily. “You don’t know him.” He mounted the steep stairs. “He’ll be delighted to help,” he said, and rang, or pulled, the bell.
    â€œNobody’s home,” I said hastily, and began to back down the steps.
    â€œSomeone’s coming,” Jordan said. “What’s wrong with you?” The red door opened, and a