“Would it be worth while?” asked the girl with a little smile.

“It is a question of temperament,” said Deringham.  “Personally, I do not think it would.  Indeed, one could fancy that a man of taste would sooner be interred decently, which is why I will take a very little of the tea.  You see, our mode of life in England, unfortunately, depends to some extent upon my retaining the good will of Mr. Alton of Somasco.  He will, however, have to excuse me from tasting his butter.”

The girl poured a little of the tea into the cups, and then emptied the pot over the balustrade, which was, as it happened, a blunder, because while she endeavoured to crumble a small portion of the bread so as to convey the impression that she had been eating it, Alton and Seaforth came into the verandah.

The latter glanced at her, and, for he could not help it, a little smile flickered in his eyes.

“It is a very long while since I had afternoon tea, and I am not sure that Harry ever indulged in it in his life,” he said.  “I will bring some more cups if you will give us some.”

Deringham looked at his daughter reproachfully, though his eyes twinkled, and for just a moment a flush crept into the girl’s face, but she laughed as she said, “Then I must trouble to ask the cook for more water.”

Alton hammered upon the suspended iron sheet, and in a minute or two the cook appeared again with a large plateful of sliced pork which he laid down before Miss Deringham.

“I was figuring you would change your mind, and if you want any more you have only to ask for it,” he said.

It cost the girl an effort to repress a shiver of disgust, but though she succeeded Alton saw her face, and she noticed that the bronze grew a trifle darker in his forehead.  It seemed that he guessed her thoughts, but the fact that he offered no explanation and made no excuse for the uninviting fare pleased her.  She fancied she understood his reticence, and that it became him.

“Take that pork away, and bring more water!” he said, and there was a faint ring in his voice, as he turned to the cook.

The man, who took up the teapot, shook it, and then, as though still incredulous, lifted the lid and gazed inside it.

“More water?” he said.

“Yes,” said Alton, a trifle harshly.  “Get it right now!”

The man went away, and there was for almost a minute a somewhat unpleasant silence.  Even Seaforth did not seem to know what to say, though he felt an absurd desire to laugh, and Alice Deringham was at once relieved and somewhat astonished when Alton put an end to it by a whimsical story of a raw Englishman’s camp cookery.  Seaforth followed it with a better one, and the whole four were laughing when the cook came back again.  He smiled at them reassuringly as he put the teapot down.

“I guess there’s enough this time,” he said.  “It’s that full I could scarcely get the lid on.”