Thwaites would ever die.

As with his soup, Mr. Thwaites had a vigorous and single-minded technique with his porridge, and nothing was said for a minute or so, during which period there was a good deal of movement and adjustment of crockery and utensils upon the table. Even here the war had risen to the occasion and achieved its characteristic crowding effect, each guest having been supplied with a separate dish for butter and a separate bowl for sugar. This, in addition to its inconvenience, created a disagreeable atmosphere of niggardliness and caution, and caused Miss Roach further self-consciousness and difficulty. For Mr. Thwaites, she was fully aware, had his eye upon every cut she made at her butter and every spoonful she took of her sugar, mutely accusing her, if she took too much too early in the week, of greed or prodigality, or of parsimoniousness and tenacity if she saved either up for the end of the week and perpetrated the atrocious impropriety of having some left when all his had gone and consuming it in front of him. There was no pleasing this man.

‘Nice to see the sun again,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘It looks as though it might be a nice day.’

Mr. Thwaites, taking this remark, as he took all remarks made in this room, as being addressed to himself, looked over towards the window.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A fine morning, in Troth . . . In veritable Troth – a Beauteous Morning . . .’ And he went on with his porridge.

When Mr. Thwaites started this Troth language it generally meant that he was in a good temper. If only as a symptom of this Miss Roach hoped that it might continue, and it did.

‘And dost thou go forth this bonny morn,’ he said, addressing Mrs. Barratt, ‘into the highways and byways, to pay thy due respects to Good King Sol?’

Mrs. Barratt, familiar, as all in the Rosamund Tea Rooms were, with the Troth language, was able quickly to translate this, and see that Mr. Thwaites was asking her if she was going out for a walk. As she went for a walk every morning, and as Mr. Thwaites knew this perfectly well, the question was totally meaningless, and was put to Mrs. Barratt solely in order that Mr. Thwaites might exercise his eccentric and exuberant prose.

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Barratt, ‘as a matter of fact I’ve got to go round and see my doctor at twelve.’

There was a pause as Mr. Thwaites worked out what he could do with this.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So at the Hour of Noon thou visiteth the Man of Many Medicines – dost thou?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Barratt. ‘That’s right.’

‘Issuing therefrom, I take it,’ said Mr.