‘Brunch?’ He shuddered again. ‘Brunch is the terrible work of the — ‘ he did not quite say devil. ‘It’s neither one thing nor another thing.’ ‘But elevenses?’ I replied. ‘Ah yes, elevenses,’ he grinned. ‘That’s what keeps you going until lunch.’ Mid morning, he usually partakes of a slice of seed cake and Madeira. He ordered some for us now. The caraway seed cake was pound cake, not too dry, with a crunchy crust. ‘A little dour,’ said Fergus, ‘but good.’ A sip of the amber Madeira, sweet and thick, wetted the tongue and warmed the palate.