"Do eat," she said.
But he did not touch the food.
"Shall y'ave something?" he asked her. "Shall y'ave a cup of tea? t' kettle's on t' boil." He half rose again from his chair.
"If you'll let me make it myself," she said rising. He seemed sad, and she felt she was bothering him.
"Well, teapot's in there,"—he pointed to a little, drab corner cupboard; "an' cups. An' tea's on t' mantel ower yer 'ead."
She got the black teapot, and the tin of tea from the mantelshelf. She rinsed the teapot with hot water, and stood a moment wondering where to empty it.
"Thrown it out," he said, aware of her. "It's clean."
She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path. How lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves; in the garden the red daisies were like red plush buttons. She glanced at the big, hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now crossed by so few feet.
"But it's lovely here," she said. "Such a beautiful stillness, everything alive and still."
He was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she could feel he was discouraged. She made the tea in silence, and set the teapot on the hob, as she knew the people did. He pushed his plate aside and went to the back place; she heard a latch click, then he came back with cheese on a plate, and butter.