Bertie was up early so as to call for Estelle; his taxi sped to the quiet square where her aunt lived. A gloomy place, with tall houses standing in formidable respectability, where grave old butlers opened doors, and broughams and victorias still came round to take their owners for an airing. Estelle was on the doorstep, cool and fresh, one of the few people who can get up early without looking sleepy. They flew to Devonshire. "First class!" Estelle frowned as she saw her ticket. "Oh, Captain Carteret!" "This is my day," he pleaded. "To be economical travelling one must be economical in company. Come along." They had an empty carriage; going down to the restaurant for breakfast--a little gritty as train breakfasts are, but excellent. London slipped away; they ran past lush meadows, past placid streams, old farmhouses sheltered by trees. The countryside was alive with busy workers. Steel knives cut the grass and laid it in fragrant swathes. Steel teeth tossed it up through the hot, dry air. It was perfect weather for saving hay, for gathering the early harvest. The earth gives to us living, takes our clay to its heart when our spirits have left it. The heat mists swept up slowly from the world; fairy vapours floating heavenwards until the summer's day was clear in its sunlit beauty; and they tore into far Devon with the salt breath of the sea in the faint wind. A dogcart met them at the station; a short drive, with the sea pulsing far below them, brought them to Cliff End. An old house standing amid a blaze of flowers, it was its owner's whim to have it kept up as if he were living there. There were quaintly-shaped rooms, with windows flung wide. Estelle ran through them, getting her first glimpse of a true English home, while Bertie went over accounts and did his business. The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared breathlessly just as he came in. She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, but old bones moved slowly; she had been down to the Home Farm to see a sick child there. "We'm right glad to see your good lady at last," she smiled at Estelle, holding out a wrinkled hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the family. "Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a friend, Mrs Corydon." But his face changed suddenly; he grew red. Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late luncheon was perfect of its kind. Grilled trout, chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries. "It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked round the panelled room. "If one could live here one could be happy simply being alive." "Some people could," he said quietly. "Esmé would die of boredom in a week." "Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the sea crooning so close," she said. "But in winter," he answered, "there are no flowers, and the sea would roar." "Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and hunting, and books; and always fresh air. I stifle in London."