Suddenly the Corporal realized that he had let his tongue run away with him, as it did sometimes. Melia was getting drowsy. He got up, therefore, and stretched his legs on the soft turf and then he said, "Let us go across to the Corfield Arms and see if we can get a cup of tea. And then if you feel up to it we'll walk through the Glade as far as Dibley and look at the house that Torrington lived in." XXX They went across to the Corfield Arms. It was an old, romantic looking inn, spoiled a little in these later days by contiguity to a great hive of commerce. But there were occasions, even now, when it retained something of the halo of ancient peace it was wont to bear; and the afternoon being Friday was an off day for visitors. When Bill and Melia passed through the bowling green at the back of the house to the arbor where last they had sat in the days of their courtship they found it empty. In the garden by the arbor an old man was plucking raspberries. He turned out to be the landlord, and to the secret gratification of Melia he addressed Bill as "sir," out of deference to his uniform. Upon receiving the Corporal's commands he called loudly for "Polly." In two shakes of a duck's tail Polly appeared: a blithe beauty in a clean lilac print dress, a little shrunk in the wash, which showed to advantage the lovely lines of her shape and the slender stem of a brown but classic neck in which a nest of red-gold hair hung loose. The Corporal ordered a royal repast for two persons; a pot of tea, boiled eggs, bread and butter, cake, and a little of the honey for which the house used to be famous. While they waited for the tea, the Corporal gave the old chap a hand with the raspberries. "Happen you remember Torrington, the artist who lived up at Dibley?" "Aye." The old man remembered him without difficulty. "Knew him well when I was young. Soft Jack we used to call him; an old man and just a bit touched like as I remember him. Long beard he had and blue eyes--wonderful blue eyes had that old feller. Out painting in the open all day long, in all weathers. I used to stand for hours and watch him. He'd paint a bit, and then he'd paint it out, and then he'd paint it in again. 'Course he was clever, you know, in a manner of speaking. Nobody thought much of him then, but in these days, if you'll believe me, I've known people come specially from London to ask about him."