The housekeeper, a smiling dame, appeared breathlessly just as he came in.
She was ashamed not to be there to meet them, but old bones moved slowly; she had been down to the Home Farm to see a sick child there.
"We'm right glad to see your good lady at last," she smiled at Estelle, holding out a wrinkled hand. Mrs Corydon was a privileged friend of the family.
"Not my good lady," Bertie said hurriedly, "a friend, Mrs Corydon." But his face changed suddenly; he grew red.
Man is a being dependent on his dinner; their late luncheon was perfect of its kind. Grilled trout, chicken, Devonshire cream, and strawberries.
"It's such a glorious old place." Estelle looked round the panelled room. "If one could live here one could be happy simply being alive."
"Some people could," he said quietly. "Esmé would die of boredom in a week."
"Of boredom, with those flowers outside, with the sea crooning so close," she said.
"But in winter," he answered, "there are no flowers, and the sea would roar."
"Then there would be fires," said Estelle, "and hunting, and books; and always fresh air. I stifle in London."