The glass-house was very peaceful. Above a huge Lent lily the spring's first butterfly hovered and was still awhile, then quivered again and fluttered away, till his pale wings grew invisible against the aisles of yellow bloom. The short, impatient barks of Roger's terrier outside the door came to them, dulled and faint. The sun poured down upon the already heated air. Alwynne walked down the long narrow middle way, hesitating, enjoying, and moving on again, much, Roger thought, as the butterfly had done. She said little, but her delight was evident. Roger was pleased; he liked his flowers to be appreciated. But he, too, said little; he was considering his course of action. At the end of the conservatory was a square of brick flooring on which stood a table with a tobacco jar, and a litter of magazines; beside it an ancient basket-chair. Roger pulled it forward. "This is my sanctum," he said. "Won't you sit down? I do a lot of work here in the winter." Alwynne sank into the creaking wicker-work with a sigh of relief. "I shall never get up again," she said. "It's too comfortable. I'm tired." "Of course." He smiled at her. "Don't you worry. You needn't budge till you want to. I'll get some tea." "You mustn't bother. It'll be cold. It's miles to the house," said Alwynne wearily. He made no answer, but began to clear away the rubbish on the table. He moved deftly, light-footed, without clumsy or unnecessary noise; in spite of his size, his movements were always silent and assured.