"How about your stepmother? Didn't I ask her to lunch last week? Aunt Sophy's brilliant in comparison."
"That's different," growled Basil. "Lunch isn't dinner. One doesn't expect to be bored at dinner."
Teresa shrugged her shoulders, and went out to see the cook. When she returned Mrs. Boulter was in the drawing-room and Basil in his bedroom, whence he presently called to her, after fruitlessly ringing his bell.
"Teresa, there isn't one single clean shirt in my bureau, except some with the buttonholes torn!" he exclaimed. "Where on earth is my laundry?"
He stood in the middle of the floor, a brush in each hand, his hair fiercely rumpled. His broad shoulders contracted nervously; an irritable fire shot from his eyes.
"I don't know," said Teresa indifferently. "I suppose Mary forgot it."
"Yes, I suppose she did. Why doesn't she answer the bell? It's impossible to get anything done properly in this house."
Teresa, without replying, went down the hall, and returned after a few moments with a large paper bundle suspended by a string.
"There's your laundry, cross-patch," she observed loftily. "And all because of poor old
