Katty smiled her assent, and turned obediently towards the little table which had been placed by her elbow.
She saw that the kettle was so fixed by a clever arrangement that there was no fear of accident, though the water in it had been brought in almost boiling on the lacquer tray—a tray which was as exquisitely choice in its way as was everything else in the room.
Katty, as we know, was used to making afternoon tea. Very deftly she put three teaspoonfuls of tea into the teapot, and then poured out the boiling water from the bright yellow kettle. She was surprised at its weight.
"Yes," said Greville Howard, "it's rather heavy—gold always is. It's fifteen-carat gold. I bought that kettle years ago, in Paris. It took my fancy."
He looked at the clock. "We will give the tea three minutes to draw," he said thoughtfully.
And then he began to talk to her about the people with whom she was staying, the people who had never seen him, but who had so deep—it now seemed to her so unreasoning and unreasonable—a prejudice against him. And what he had to say about them amused, even diverted, Katty, so shrewd were his thrusts, so true his appreciation of the faults and the virtues of dear Helen and Tony Haworth. But how on earth had he learnt all that?
And then, at the end of the three minutes, she poured the tea into the transparent blue-and-white Chinese porcelain cups.
"No milk, no sugar, no cream for me," he said. "Only a slice of that lemon."
Greville Howard watched Katty take her tea, and eat the bread and butter and the cake—daintily, but with a good appetite. He watched her with the pleasant sensations that most men felt when watching Katty do anything—the feeling that she was not only very pretty, but very healthy too, and agreeable to look upon, a most satisfactory, satisfying feminine presence.
After she had finished, he again touched his invisible button, and the tray was taken swiftly and noiselessly away.