After two strong gin cocktails in the drawing room with Leon and his sister, Marshall had come upstairs to find his room, unpack and change for dinner. Without removing his shoes, he had stretched out on the enormous four-poster and, soothed by the country silence, the drinks and the early evening warmth, dropped away into a light sleep in which his young sisters had appeared, all four of them, standing around his bedside, prattling and touching and pulling at his clothes. He woke, hot across his chest and throat, uncomfortably aroused, and briefly confused about his surroundings. It was while he was sitting on the edge of his bed, drinking water, that he heard the voices that must have prompted his dream. When he went along the creaky corridor and entered the nursery, he had seen three children. Now he saw that the girl was almost a young woman, poised and imperious, quite the little Pre-Raphaelite princess with her bangles and tresses, her painted nails and velvet choker. He said to her, “You’ve jolly good taste in clothes. Those trousers suit you especially well, I think.” She was pleased rather than embarrassed and her fingers lightly brushed the fabric where it ballooned out across her narrow hips. “We got them in Liberty’s when my mother brought me to London to see a show.” “And what did you see?” “Hamlet.” They had in fact seen a matinee pantomime at the London Palladium during which Lola had spilled a strawberry drink down her frock, and Liberty’s was right across the street. “One of my favorites,” Paul said. It was fortunate for her that he too had neither read nor seen the play, having studied chemistry. But he was able to say musingly, “To be or not to be.” “That is the question,” she agreed. “And I like your shoes.” He tilted his foot to examine the craftsmanship. “Yes. Ducker’s in The Turl. They make a wooden thingy of your foot and keep it on a shelf forever. Thousands of them down in a basement room, and most of the people are long dead.” “How simply awful.” “I’m hungry,” Pierrot said again. “Ah well,” Paul Marshall said, patting his pocket. “I’ve got something to show you if you can guess what I do for a living.” “You’re a singer,” Lola said. “At least, you have a nice voice.” “Kind but wrong. D’you know, you remind me of my favorite sister . . .” Jackson interrupted. “You make chocolates in a factory.” Before too much glory could be heaped upon his brother, Pierrot added, “We heard you talking at the pool.” “Not a guess then.” He drew from his pocket a rectangular bar wrapped in greaseproof paper and measuring about four inches by one. He placed it on his lap and carefully unwrapped it and held it up for their inspection. Politely, they moved nearer. It had a smooth shell of drab green against which he clicked his fingernail. “Sugar casing, see? Milk chocolate inside. Good for any conditions, even if it melts.” He held his hand higher and tightened his grip, and they could see the tremor in his fingers exaggerated by the bar. “There’ll be one of these inside the kit bag of every soldier in the land. Standard issue.” The twins looked at each other. They knew that an adult had no business with sweets. Pierrot said, “Soldiers don’t eat chocolate.” His brother added, “They like cigarettes.” “And anyway, why should they all get free sweets and not the children?” “Because they’ll be fighting for their country.” “Our dad says there isn’t going to be a war.” “Well, he’s wrong.” Marshall sounded a little testy, and Lola said reassuringly, “Perhaps there will be one.” He smiled up at her. “We’re calling it the Army Amo.” “Amo amas amat,” she said. “Exactly.” Jackson said, “I don’t see why everything you buy has to end in o.” “It’s really boring,” Pierrot said. “Like Polo and Aero.” “And Oxo and Brillo.” “I think what they’re trying to tell me,” Paul Marshall said to Lola as he presented her the bar, “is that they don’t want any.” She took it solemnly, and then for the twins, gave a serves-you-right look. They knew this was so. They could hardly plead for Amo now. They watched her tongue turn green as it curled around the edges of the candy casing. Paul Marshall sat back in the armchair, watching her closely over the steeple he made with his hands in front of his face. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. Then he took a deep breath. “Bite it,” he said softly. “You’ve got to bite it.” It cracked loudly as it yielded to her unblemished incisors, and there was revealed the white edge of the sugar shell, and the dark chocolate beneath it. It was then that they heard a woman calling up the stairs from the floor below, and then she called again, more insistently, from just along the corridor, and this time the twins recognized the voice and a look of sudden bewilderment passed between them. Lola was laughing through her mouthful of Amo. “There’s Betty looking for you. Bathtime! Run along now. Run along.”