XII

She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path. How lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves; in the garden the red daisies were like red plush buttons. She glanced at the big, hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now crossed by so few feet.

“But it’s lovely here,” she said. “Such a beautiful stillness, everything alive and still.”

He was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she could feel he was discouraged. She made the tea in silence, and set the teapot on the hob, as she knew the people did. He pushed his plate aside and went to the back place; she heard a latch click, then he came back with cheese on a plate, and butter.

She set the two cups on the table, there were only two.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” she said.

“If you like. Sugar’s in th’ cupboard, an’ there’s a little cream-jug. Milk’s in a jug in th’ pantry.”

“Shall I take your plate away?” she asked him. He looked up at her with a faint ironical smile.

“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.