But the teapot was not Mrs. Galland's—it belonged to the staff.
"This is different," observed Marta, touching her finger-tip to the coat of arms of the Grays on the side of a cup.
"Yes, my own field kit," he answered, thinking that the novelty of tea from a soldier's service had appealed to her; for she was smiling.
"So, you being the host and I the guest now, why, you pour!" she said. There was a touch of brittleness in her tone—of half-teasing, half-serious brittleness.
"Oh, no, no!" he protested laughingly, and found her glance flashing through her brows holding him fast in an indefinable challenge.
"I shall pour when you do us the honor to come to tea at the gardener's quarters in the tower," she said.
"No, no!" he objected. "The tea conditions are the same as before."
He was earnest for his point. It would please his masculine fancy to watch those firm, small fingers pausing over the cup before the plunge of a lump of sugar stirred the miniature ocean in waves; to watch the firm little hand in its grip of the handle of the pot.
"Conditions the same as before?" She laughed softly. "How can they be in my thoughts or yours?" she asked with a sudden show of seriousness.
"We did turn you out of house and home—I understand!" he exclaimed apologetically. "And that is the symbol of it to you!" He indicated the coat of arms.