Without further ceremony the pale brew is poured into plain china cups, through a silver strainer and from a teapot in a bright, hand-knitted cosy. It looks as cheerfully reassuring as a matronly aunt in an old dressing gown—only its white handle, spout and lid are exposed. "Milk?" asks Teddy Young, jug poised over the cups; and for just that flicker of an instant, as one blue eye under a cocked eyebrow frames the query, you know you are being judged.