Carruthers, once awakened, found it very hard to get back to sleep. He was a bit angry as well, for the dream of the Public School Boy's Swimming Team had been delightful. Oddly Paul had been on the team...Paul, balding and with his middle-aged paunch, had seemed strangely out of place in the tight Speedos and goggles. How Carruthers missed him, his delicate way with the finches, his light hand with the spice when preparing Mornay Sauce, his impassioned Juliet when he and Carruthers would read the Balcony Scene together on those damp nights in Croyden. "Oh, Paul," he murmured again, but the only sound in return was a sudden snorting in-take of breath on the part of the Dame. A spot of Sherry was what he needed.

He left the berth, closing the door silently behind him, and nearly butted heads with a tall stranger carrying a violin case as he turned a corner in the passage. The stranger hurried on silently, while Carruthers called "Well, EXCUSE me!" and under his breath "uncouth lout." Something wet was warm against his wrist, and as he entered the Club Car he examined it; a small bead of crimson blood.