"Just to be alive," his wife echoed, stretching one pale, knot-jointed hand into the sunlight.
A maid brought the coffee; the silver pots and the little blue cups were set on a folding table near the group of chairs.
"Oh, my medicine!" exclaimed Mrs. Hutton. "Run in and fetch it, Clara, will you? The white bottle on the sideboard."
"I'll go," said Mr. Hutton. "I've got to go and fetch a cigar in any case."
He ran in towards the house. On the threshold he turned round for an instant. The maid was walking back across the lawn. His wife was sitting up in her deck-chair, engaged in opening her white parasol. Miss Spence was bending over the table, pouring out the coffee. He passed into the cool obscurity of the house.
"Do you like sugar in your coffee?" Miss Spence inquired.
"Yes, please. Give me rather a lot. I'll drink it after my medicine to take the taste away."
Mrs. Hutton leaned back in her chair, lowering the sunshade over her eyes, so as to shut out from her vision the burning sky.
Behind her, Miss Spence was making a delicate clinking among the coffee-cups.
"I've given you three large spoonfuls. That ought to take the taste away. And here comes the medicine."