"Oh, I don't want anything more," said Nicky, plunging head-first into a desperate ambiguity. He emerged. "What I mean is, when we've got Him, and when we've got Her—creators——" He paused before the immensity of his vision of Them. "What business have we——"
"To go putting one and one together so as to make two?"
"Well—it doesn't seem quite reverent."
"You think them gods, then, your creators?"
"I think I—worship them."
"Ah, Mr. Nicholson, you're adorable. And I'm atrocious."
"I believe," said Nicky, "tea is in the garden."
"Let us go into the garden," said Miss Bickersteth.
And they went.
Tea was served in a green recess shut in from the lawn by high yew hedges. Nicky at his tea-table was more charming than ever, surrounded by old silver and fine linen, making tea delicately, and pouring it into fragile cups and offering it, doing everything with an almost feminine dexterity and grace.