I turned my eyes from husband to granitic intruder. A rather fine rock, would you not agree? An almost. “You are right, it’s probably best to leave America out of the matter. Although it did seem that no sooner was I enjoying the peace than something would come along to shatter it: an urgent telegram, a bleeding stranger at the door. This was far from the first time I had stood on the terrace with a cup of tea, appreciating not being elsewhere. We had just returned, after what began as a brief, light-hearted trip to Lisbon became (need I even add the word “inevitably”?) tumultuous months in several countries. Truth to tell, I was enjoying not only the contents of my cup, but the lack of fretting waves beneath my feet and the peace of this cool spring afternoon. In America, there is-well, one can hardly call it ‘coffee.’ The Bedouin, of course. Tea: Moroccan mint, Japanese green, English black. “The significance of a society’s hallmark beverage. “It would make for an interesting monograph,” he continued. My lack of reply had no effect on his pursuit of the idea. “Is it the water from our well that makes Mrs Hudson’s tea so distinctive,” he mused, “or the milk from Mrs Philpott’s cows?” He swallowed absently, then glanced down in surprise, as if the homecoming drink had brought to mind the face of a long-forgotten friend. Sherlock Holmes raised his tea-cup to his lips.
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