"Is it raining again?" said Clifford, seeing her shake her hat.
"Just drizzle."
She poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy. She did want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really real. If it were really real.
"Shall I read a little to you afterwards?" said Clifford.
She looked at him. Had he sensed something?
"The spring makes me feel queer—I thought I might rest a little," she said.
"Just as you like. Not feeling really unwell, are you?"
"No! Only rather tired—with the spring. Will you have Mrs. Bolton to play something with you?"
"No! I think I'll listen in."
She heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. She went upstairs to her bedroom. There she heard the loud-speaker begin to bellow, in an idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice, something about a series of street-cries, the very cream of genteel affectation imitating old criers. She pulled on her old violet-coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the house at the side door.