d have caused me a certain astonishment I do not know,
but it did. I thought of Knype station, and the scenery, and then the
other little station, and the desert of pots and cinders, and the mud
in the road and on the pavement and in the hall, and the baby-linen in
the bathroom, and three children all down with mumps, and Mr Brindley's
cap and knickerbockers and cigarettes; and somehow the books--I soon
saw there were at least a thousand of them, and not circulating-library
books, either, but BOOKS--well, they administered a little shock to me.

To Mr Brindley's right hand was a bottle of Bass and a corkscrew.

'Beer!' he exclaimed, with solemn ecstasy, with an ecstasy gross and
luscious. And, drawing the cork, he poured out a glass, with fine skill
in the management of froth, and pushed it towards me.

'No, thanks,' I said.

'No beer!' he murmured, with benevolent, puzzled disdain. 'Whisky?'

'No, thanks,' I said. 'Water.'

'_I_ know what Mr Loring would like,' said Mrs Brindley, jumping up. 'I
KNOW what Mr Loring would like.' She opened a cupboard and came back to
the table with a bottle, which she planted in front of me. 'Wouldn't
you, Mr Loring?'

It was a bottle of mercurey, a wine which has given me many dreadful
dawns, but which I have never known how to refuse.

'I should,' I admitted; 'but it's very bad for me.'

'Nonsense!' said she. She looked at her husband in triumph.

'Beer!' repeated Mr Brindley with undiminished ecstasy, and drank about
two-thirds of a glass at one try. Then he wiped the froth from his
moustache. 'Ah!' he breathed low and soft. 'Beer!'

They called the meal supper. The term is inadequate. No term that I can
think of would be adequate. Of its kind the thing was perfect. Mrs
Brindley knew that it was perfect. Mr Brindley also knew that it was
perfect. There were prawns in aspic. I don't know why I should single
out that dish, except that it seemed strange to me to have crossed the
desert of pots and cinders in order to encounter prawns in aspic. Mr
Brindley ate more cold roast beef than I had ever seen any man eat
before, and more pickled walnuts. It is true that the cold roast beef
transcended all the cold roast beef of my experience. Mrs Brindley
regaled herself largely on trifle, which Mr Brindley would not
approach, preferring a most glorious Stilton cheese. I lost touch,
temporarily, with the intellectual life. It was Mr Brindley who
recalled me to it.

'Jane,' he said.