“You’ve walked up,” he exclaimed, surprised. “Well, perhaps you will join me.” He sat down before a low table which gleamed with silver and yellow china. “Coffee? My morning tipple is tea, but Nana always has some coffee because she loves it herself.” “If you really have it,” said Moira, “I’d like some coffee.” A large, impassive negress soon served her. “It isn’t much of a house you’re going to see,” he went on. “I call it the orchard bungalow and it is nearly as decrepit as the orchard itself. But it will shed the rain.” “And it’s not taken?” asked Moira warmly. “Well, no--not exactly. But I’m afraid it’s too--well, unpretentious for you.” “It couldn’t be that,” she laughed. As he finished his toast her gaze went on embracing the room with frank pleasure, and she was aware he took sly glances at her. “Do you paint?” he asked suddenly. Moira had been afraid of the question. Though her host had only given his last name she had read it on pictures in the studio, and knew now that he was an American painter of reputation whose work she had worried over at various exhibitions. She felt extremely humble, but her fear arose from the suspicion that a successful painter might object to having irresponsible and immature dabblers running about in his near neighbourhood. She could not hide in the immediate safety of a lie. Eventually that would be found out, though it tempted her. “I’m just a student,” she replied, and went on quickly, “but the real reason I want a country place is because I’ve two young children. Do you mind that? I’m sure they will not bother you.” “Not at all,” he said cordially. “On the contrary.... However,” he added, rising, “I think we had better look at this humble dwelling before you grow too enthusiastic, my dear young lady.” As Moira had entered the place, her mind’s eye had pictured the four-year-old Miles playing among those buttercups, and learning things he might never get to know if he grew much older in the city. Now every step confirmed her in the desire to live here at any cost. The nostalgia for Thornhill which she had felt in many a solitary hour during these last ten years, together with a flood of early memories, swept over her. The orchard, upon which a few apple blossoms lingered, was enchantingly old and weird. Standing in the high grass beneath it one could see a pattern of winding stone fences crisscrossing the fields, and up a near-by hill danced three pale birches like a trio of white-legged girls with green veils trailing about them. Even a bit of decayed brown board by the path made her sentimental. She wanted to run after a butterfly or to lie full length in the grass of the meadow, letting the sun drink her up.... The house was small, but a moment’s speculation and mental rearrangement convinced her that it was adequate. She and the genial owner found themselves making plans together for the comfort of the Harlindew family.