"Oh, bother, all right, have you made tea?"

"No," said Rodney. "You can do without tea this morning."

Peter sat up and began to fumble in his knapsack.

"I see no morning," he patiently remarked, as he struck a match and lit
a tiny spirit-lamp. "I see no morning; and whether there is a morning or
merely a moon I cannot do without tea. Or biscuits."

He found the biscuits, and apparently they had been underneath him all
night.

"I thought the ground felt even pricklier than usual," he commented. "I
do have such dreadfully bad luck, don't I. Crumbs, Rodney? They're quite
good, for crumbs. Better than crusts, anyhow. I should think even you
could eat crumbs without pampering yourself. And if crumbs then tea, or
you'll choke. Here you are."

He poured tea into two collapsible cups and passed one to Rodney, who had
been discoursing for some time on his special topic, the art of doing
without.

Then Peter, drinking tea and munching crumbs, sat up in his bag and
looked at what Rodney described as the morning. He saw how the long,
pointed olive leaves stood with sharp edges against pale light; how
the silver screen was, if one looked into it, a thing of magic details
of delight, of manifold shapes and sharp little shadowings and delicate
tracery; how gnarled stems were light-touched and shadow-touched and
silver and black; how the night was delicate, marvellous, a radiant