Clark sat opposite, watching that hand steadily lift the teapot, pouring tea into the bone china teacup, producing a subtle sound.
Those hands were covered in calluses, quite different from the pampered bureaucrats of White Hall he imagined.
Clark suddenly felt his hands were somewhat redundant, placing them on his knees felt too restrained; picking up the teacup, the tea had cooled, putting it down, he didn't know where to place his hands again.
Fortunately, Arthur spoke just in time: "The mornings in Scotland are much colder than in London."
Clark nodded: "Yes, indeed it's cold."
"From London all the way here, how long did it take?"
"Two days, with a night's rest in York on the way."
Arthur nodded and didn't ask further.
The room fell silent, the fire in the fireplace crackled, the fog outside gradually dissipating in the sunlight.
Sitting in this quiet, Clark felt every second was hard to endure.
