“Oh, Morgan, why don’t you get married?” She handed him his cup.

“Cheaper to buy the tea strainer,” he said.

“Seriously.” She gave him a swift glance.

He drank his tea. Finally he set his cup down and stretched a little. “Oh well,” he said. “Non sum qualis eram, and all that.”

“Oh, Morgan,” she said again, but with a faint commendation, as if he were a child who had given the correct reply.

“However,” he continued at once, as if she must not get up her expectations, “I’m not going to blow my brains out, or anything like that.” There was another pause, and he added, “What a dated expression that is. It sounds as though it would have to be done with a fowling piece.”

They both laughed.

What now? thought Mrs. Fanshaw, entering with a duster in her hand. She never comes here, that one, without she wants something—it stands out like a needle in a haystack. “I think you’ve got the worm in your chest, sir,” she said.

“Oh yes?” Morgan inquired politely.

“There’s every sign. On the sides, and around the handles.” She shook her duster out the open window with a sort of flurried determination, as if she were signaling to the enemy. Her cap of feathery hair and a coating of white face powder that had lodged in her eyebrows contributed to an air of having been herself improperly dusted. “Better watch it. Once it gets in, it spreads like wild flowers.”

“Really?” said Morgan. Why on earth doesn’t she shut up and go into the kitchen, he wondered.

“Oh, certainly. Hand over foot,” she said. She noted Morgan’s hand, which touched the sweep of Lucia’s dress, while Lucia, unconcerned, looked at Mrs. Fanshaw over her teacup. Heartless, Mrs. Fanshaw observed to herself; heartless. “I’ll put those biscuits on a plate.” She picked up the tartan box. She went into the kitchen and closed the door.

“It’s really too bad,” said Lucia, “poor old thing. Imagine having to work at that age, going on one’s knees to scrub, lifting furniture about. What a shame. Good strong face she has, too. Nobody’s fool.”

Morgan settled back with his cup. “Well, what’s your news?”

“Oh—no news, I suppose. Really nothing to tell you.” She poured hot water into the pot—cautiously, for the saucepan had no lip. “In fact…” she said, and hesitated.

Mrs. Fanshaw reappeared. “Must have been here for years, this tin. It’s a regular Pandora’s box—you’ll never get it open.”

“We’ll do without, then,” Lucia said.

“In fact?” Morgan prompted her, when they were alone again.

“I was going to say that I only seem to come here when I want something.”

“You name it,” he said, hoping it wouldn’t be money, for he didn’t have any at present.

“I meant—comfort. All that.”