VI
AUNT SOPHIA came into the dining-room—tall, handsome, imposing, in grey clothes that rustled—and peered through her eye-glasses at the limp person on the divan.
"Teresa, why don't you have a light? Can you give me a cup of tea, I've just come from our Friday meeting—why are you feasting by yourself in the dark?"
"Because I've been crying," said Teresa languidly, getting up to turn on the electric light.
"Crying? So you have. Have you been quarrelling with Basil?"
"Basil! Whenever I'm upset, Aunt Sophia, you jump to the conclusion that it's Basil."
"Well, I'm sure it generally is. Whenever I see a woman unhappy, I know a man's at the bottom of it."
Aunt Sophy poured out her tea and added liberal hot water with a firm hand.
"All I say is, don't cry over them—they're not worth it," she added.
Aunt Sophy was the one person to whom Teresa ever confided anything. This she did for two reasons: First, that Aunt Sophy invariably took her side with passion—if passion could be associated with that lady. And secondly, that
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