"Aren't you having any?" he asked.
"I had mine, thank you. Will you want anything else?"
He could see past her into the kitchen—the corner of a large wood-burning stove and a row of brass pots. The floor was flagstoned and a hand pump stood over a sink.
"Do you really grow your own strawberries?" he asked.
"Yes. Would you like some?"
"Very much."
Mrs. Tilton went to get the berries. She had forgotten to serve cream with the coffee. The coffee had a bitter taste and a faint smell of iodine. But he was not used to natural coffee. And without cream. He took another sip and slowly stretched his stiff legs. In the window he saw lilac bushes in bloom.
"Picked this morning," Mrs. Tilton said, setting a bowl of strawberries before him.
"Oh, thank you." He sniffed at the berries. "They smell of earth," he said, smiling at her.
"You might like a walk after breakfast," Mrs. Tilton suggested. "Then you can have a restful nap at noon."