She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea. The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy over the teapot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers hung over, limp on their stalks.

“They’ll revive again!” she said, putting them before him in their glass for him to smell.

“Sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,” he quoted.

“I don’t see a bit of connection with the actual violets,” she said. “The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.”

She poured him his tea.

“Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from John’s Well, where the pheasants are reared?” she said.

“There may be. Why?”