Mr. Hutton had reappeared, carrying a wineglass, half full of a pale liquid.
"It smells delicious," he said, as he handed it to his wife.
"That's only the flavouring." She drank it off at a gulp, shuddered, and made a grimace. "Ugh, it's so nasty. Give me my coffee."
Miss Spence gave her the cup; she sipped at it. "You've made it like syrup. But it's very nice, after that atrocious medicine."
At half-past three Mrs. Hutton complained that she did not feel as well as she had done, and went indoors to lie down. Her husband would have said something about the red currants, but checked himself; the triumph of an "I told you so" was too cheaply won. Instead, he was sympathetic, and gave her his arm to the house.
"A rest will do you good," he said. "By the way, I shan't be back till after dinner."
"But why? Where are you going?"
"I promised to go to Johnson's this evening. We have to discuss the war memorial, you know."
"Oh, I wish you weren't going." Mrs. Hutton was almost in tears. "Can't you stay? I don't like being alone in the house."
"But, my dear, I promised weeks ago." It was a bother having to lie like this. "And now I must get back and look after Miss Spence."