“Why⁠ ⁠… if you like,” he said, slowly eating bread and cheese. She went to the back, into the penthouse scullery, where the pump was. On the left was a door, no doubt the pantry door. She unlatched it, and almost smiled at the place he called a pantry; a long narrow whitewashed slip of a cupboard. But it managed to contain a little barrel of beer, as well as a few dishes and bits of food. She took a little milk from the yellow jug.

“How do you get your milk?” she asked him, when she came back to the table.

“Flints! They leave me a bottle at the warren end. You know, where I met you!”

But he was discouraged.

She poured out the tea, poising the cream-jug.

“No milk,” he said; then he seemed to hear a noise, and looked keenly through the doorway.

“ ’Appen we’d better shut,” he said.