Just in time for the sentimental season, a story which uses, not abusively, some very vulnerable material and makes an almost certain appeal. This tells of Hilary Wainwright guarded, indifferent and shy of involvement after the Gestapo had killed his wife, and their little boy, whom he had only seen at birth, was believed to have been lost. Through the search for the boy which a Frenchman, Pierre Verdier, had begun in 1943, Hilary goes to the continent in 1945 to identify the child Pierre assures him is his, although there is no real evidence. And on his first meeting with the boy, in a Catholic orphanage, Hilary's first response is one of rejection rather than instinctive recognition. In the days that follow Hilary evades the pathos that the child arouses, the dreariness of his surroundings, is hostile towards an obligation which may not be his. Planning to abandon the child and leave for Paris with a cheap kept woman, Hilary's immunity breaks at the close and he returns to the orphanage and is a witness to a first and certain proof that this is his son. An inescapably affecting story where sentiment is edged by bitterness.