The table was at right angles to it, so that sitting at it you had nothing between one side of you and the great pane of glass that reached nearly to the floor. You could look sheer down on to the flags below. She thought it horrible, gruesome to have tea there, and the very first day, before she had had a moment's time to get used to things. Such detachment on the part of Everard was either just stark wonderful--she had already found noble explanations for it--or it was so callous that she had no explanation for it at all; none, that is, that she dared think of. Once more she decided that his way was really the best and simplest way to meet the situation. You took the bull by the horns. You seized the nettle. You cleared the air. And though her images, she felt, were not what they might be, neither was anything else that day what it might be. Everything appeared to reflect the confusion produced by Wemyss's excessive lucidity of speech. 'Shall I pour out the tea?' she asked presently, preparing, then, to take the bull by the horns; for he remained standing in front of the fire smoking in silence. 'Just think,' she went on, making an effort to be gay, 'this is the first time I shall pour out tea in my----' She was going to say 'My own home,' but the words wouldn't come off her tongue. Wemyss had repeatedly during the day spoken of his home, but not once had he said 'our' or 'your'; and if ever a house didn't feel as if it in the very least belonged, too, to her, it was this one. 'Not yet,' he said briefly. She wondered. 'Not yet?' she repeated. 'I'm waiting for the bread and butter.' 'But won't the tea get cold?' 'No doubt. And it'll be entirely that fool's fault.' 'But----' began Lucy, after a silence. 'Buts again?' 'I was only thinking that if we had it now it wouldn't be cold.' 'She must be taught her lesson.' Again she wondered. 'Won't it rather be a lesson to us?' she asked. 'For God's sake, Lucy, don't argue. Things have to be done properly in my house. You've had no experience of a properly managed household. All that set you were brought up in--why, one only had to look at them to see what a hugger-mugger way they probably lived. It's entirely the careless fool's own fault that the tea will be cold. _I_ didn't ask her to throw the bread and butter on the floor, did I?' And as she said nothing, he asked again. 'Did I?' he asked. 'No,' said Lucy. 'Well then,' said Wemyss. They waited in silence. Chesterton arrived. She put the fresh bread and butter on the table, and then wiped the floor with a cloth she had brought. Wemyss watched her closely. When she had done--and Chesterton being good at her work, scrutinise as he might he could see no sign on the floor of overlooked butter--he said, 'You will now take the teapot down and bring some hot tea.' 'Yes sir,' said Chesterton, removing the teapot. A line of a hymn her nurse used to sing came into Lucy's head when she saw the teapot going. It was: