Dearest Love. Бетти Нилс
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a garden…’
As indeed there was, below the balcony—small, high-walled, screened from the houses on either side by ornamental trees and shrubs, with the end wall built over the water.
Dr Tavener stood watching her and saying nothing and presently, aware of his silence, she turned to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been rude, but it was such a lovely surprise.’
He smiled then. ‘Yes, isn’t it? I’ve lived here for some years and it still surprises me. Come and sit down and we’ll have tea.’
She looked around her then, at the comfortable chairs and the wide sofa before the fire; the Chippendale giltwood mirror over the fireplace and the rosewood table behind the sofa; the mahogany tripod tables with their lamps and the Dutch marquetry display cabinets each side of the fireplace. It was a beautiful room, furnished beautifully. There was a rosewood writing-table under the windows, its surface covered by silver-framed photos. She would have liked to have examined them but good manners forbade that so she sat down composedly in one of the armchairs as Mrs Turner came in with the tea tray.
Cucumber sandwiches, muffins in a silver dish and a rich fruit cake. She sighed silently and swallowed the lump in her throat; it was a long time since she had seen such a tea, eaten and drunk from fine china with the tea poured from a silver pot.
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