Mr. Germain turned away from his refuge and stood attentive; Wilbraham jumped to the upright.
“Shall I have in some more tea?” he asked at large. “This has been here since five.”
“Not for me,” said Miss de Speyne. “I hate it. But the others are coming. I saw them in the bottom. They’ve been on the lake, I think.”
“And you?” This was from Mr. Germain, with a courtly inclination.
“Oh, I’ve been painting, of course.”
“Happily, I hope.”
“Miserably. Deplorably. I’ve scraped out everything, and come away at least with a clean canvas. Few painters can say as much of a day’s work.”
“Few would confess it.”
“Ah, I’ve been taught the blessing of an uncharged heart. Mr. Senhouse taught me that last year. What I was trying to do was perfectly impossible. One knows too much; one has botany, flower-shows, catalogues behind one. Fields of asphodel! But suppose you had been shown how asphodel grows?”
“Have I fields of asphodel here?” Mr. Germain looked his polite misgivings.