"Bridget, dear, you've got it!" he interrupted with excitement, "I've felt it too. Felt it this morning first, when I woke up and remembered that nobody wanted hot-water nor early tea, and I said to myself, 'There's more than that in it. I'm not doing all this just only for a salary. I'm doing it for something else. What is it?'"
He spoke very rapidly for a butler. He looked down at her red and smiling face.
"What is it?" he repeated, curiously moved.
She looked up at him without a word.
"It's something 'idden," he said, after a pause. "That's what it is."
"That's it," agreed Mrs. Horton. "Like a recipe."
There was another pause. The butler broke it. They stood together in the middle of the field, flowers and birds and sunshine all about them.
"A mystery—inside of us," he said, "I think—"
"Yes, Alfred," the cook murmured softly.
"I think," he continued, "it's a song and dance we want. A little life." He broke off abruptly, noticing the sudden movement of her bursting shoes. She took a long step forwards, then sideways. She opened her arms to the air and sun. She almost pirouetted.