The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato-saucepan on a piece of paper beside it on the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle singing.

On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop; also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The tablecloth was white oilcloth. He stood in the shade.

“You are very late,” she said. “Do go on eating!”

She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door.

“I had to go to Uthwaite,” he said, sitting down at table but not eating.

“Do eat,” she said.

But he did not touch the food.