"It seems too good to be true." Ronnie moved across the room towards her; took the hand she proffered; and raised it to his lips. At that, she felt shy again. Confidence deserted her. If he failed in this first test; if, by one word, he betrayed misunderstanding; then, indeed, she would have irretrievably demeaned herself. But Ronnie released her hand after that one kiss; and said, very simply: "I oughtn't to have let you come." Relieved, and a little touched at his words, Aliette let him take her bag and parasol. "I didn't mean you to have tea for me," she said, pulling off her gloves. "Shall I pour out?" "I'll have to boil the kettle first," he stammered, fumbling in his pocket for matches. "You'll sit here, won't you! I--I've so often imagined you sitting here and pouring out tea for me--Aliette." "Have you--Ronnie?" Laughter dimpled her cheeks. She let him lead her to the settee by the tea-table; and sat watching his struggle with the refractory wick. "Why don't you have an electric one? They're so much easier." "Are they?" How shy he seemed! "Rather!" She imagined herself infinitely the more at ease. "I like this room." "I'm so glad. It isn't my taste, you know." "Really?" As if she hadn't guessed whose taste had chosen that beige paper, those _écru_ velvet curtains with their flimsy lace _brise-bise_, the Aubusson carpet, and the plain silver tea-service on the Chippendale tray! He did not pursue the subject; and for that reticence her heart went out in thankfulness to him. Yet, at best, his reticence could only be a temporary respite: before she left this room which his mother had furnished for him, the whole issue must be discussed. And the issue--as Aliette well knew--depended, more than on any one else, on Julia Cavendish. Yes! The whole issue, not only as it affected themselves, but as it might affect others, must be threshed out before she left him. Only--only--this respite was very sweet. Why couldn't life be just one long tea-time! She felt so unutterably happy. A sense, almost a sensuousness, of well-being pervaded her. She wanted no more than this: to be with Ronnie; to hear his voice; to watch his lips, his eyes, his hands as they poured from silver kettle to silver pot; to answer, quietly, impersonally, his quiet impersonal questions. She thought how boyish he looked; how unlike Hector he was in his courtesy, his delicacy. Till suddenly, watching him across the table, she grew conscious of tension in him, of passion. And on that, this business of pouring out his tea, of accepting his cakes, turned to sorriest of farces. She wanted him beside her, close to her; she wanted to hear him whisper, "Aliette, I love you"; she wanted to whisper back, "And I love you, Ronnie. I've loved you ever since that first day." All else she had meant to say seemed positively futile.