Why was it that Robin Drummond thought suddenly of the nightingale who leans his breast upon a thorn?
In an instant the thrill in the atmosphere had passed.

She was bustling about to make them tea, if her soft, quiet movements could be called bustling.

She brought a kettle from the unpainted deal cupboard which housed her utensils of every day.

She disappeared for a few seconds and returned with the kettle full of water and set it on the gas-stove.

She pushed the papers away from one end of the table and covered it with a dainty tea-cloth.