By late morning the path to the shed had gathered a round little queue, each guest waiting for one lettuce leaf as if it were a ticket. The guinea pigs sat in a polite row, and the keeper passed out napkins of hay.
We asked at the apple kiosk by the fence. The seller said she had stepped closer, then quieter, because a tiny sign asked visitors not to chew louder than a whisper. They take one leaf, she told us. Then they dab their whiskers and nod to the next in line.
A rumor went around that the shed had become a secret restaurant. By the next afternoon it was only this: two extra guests came back for a second sitting, and the lettuce lasted, very softly, until tea.