They expose them to currents of air and then the children get fever.'
There was general agreement in the carriage.
Howard turned again to the woman.
'Madame,' he said, 'do you think this fever is infectious?
If it is so, I will get out at the next station.
But as for me, I think she is only tired.'
The little beady eyes of the old peasant woman fixed him.
'Has she got spots?'
'I - I don't think so. I don't know.'
She snorted.
'Give her to me.'
She reached out and took Sheila from him, settled her on a capacious lap, and deftly removed her coat.
With quick fingers she undid the child's clothes and had a good look at her back and front.
'She has no spots,' she said, replacing the garments. 'But fever - poor little one, she is hot as fire.
It is not right to expose a child in this condition, m'sieur.
She should be in bed.'
Howard reached out for Sheila and took her back; the Frenchwoman was certainly right.
He thanked her for her help.
'It is clear to me that she must go to bed when we arrive at Dijon,' he said.
'Should she see a doctor?'
The old woman shrugged her shoulders.
'It is not necessary.
A tisane from the chemist, and she will be well.
But you must not give her wine while she has fever.
Wine is very heating to the blood.'
Howard said: 'I understand, madame.
She shall not have wine.'
'Not even mixed with water, or with coffee.'
'No.
She should have milk?'
'Milk will not hurt her.
Many people say that children should drink as much milk as wine.'
This provoked a discussion on infant welfare that lasted till they got to Dijon.
The station at Dijon was a seething mass of soldiers.
With the utmost difficulty Howard got the children and his bags out of the train.
He had an attache case and a suitcase and the tin tube that held his rods with hun in the carriage; the rest of his luggage with the little portmanteau that held the children's clothes was registered through to Paris.
Carrying Sheila in his arms and leading Ronnie by the hand, he could not carry any of his luggage; he was forced to leave everything in a corner of the station platform and thrust his way with the two children through the crowd towards the exit.
The square before the station was a mass of lorries and troops.
He threaded his way through and across the road to the hotel that he had stayed at before, startled and bewildered by the evident confusion of the town.
He forced his way through to the hotel with the children; at the desk the girl recognised him, but told him that all the rooms were taken by the military.
'But, mademoiselle,' he said, 'I have a sick child to look after.' He explained.
The girl said: 'It is difficult for you, m'sieur. But what can I do?'
He smiled slowly.
'You can go and fetch Madame, and perhaps it will be possible for us to arrange something.'
Twenty minutes later he was in possession of a room with one large double bed, and apologising to an indignant French subaltern whose capitaine had ordered him to double up with another officer.
The bonne, a stout, untidy woman bulging out of her clothes, bustled about and made the room tidy.
'The poor little one,' she said. 'She is ill - yes?
Be tranquil, monsieur.
Without doubt, she has a little chill, or she has eaten something bad.
All will be well, two days, three days, perhaps.