"It should be just about ready, my lord."
Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edge of the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful June that year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steam wreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took into the bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In a husky light tenor he carolled a few bars of "Maman, dites-moi." Then a thought struck him, and he turned back.
"Bunter!"
"My lord?"
"No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell."
"I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord."
"Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch," said his lordship approvingly.
His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into the verbena-scented water. His eyes roamed vaguely over the pale blue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.
Mr. Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stove when the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It was empty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been the bathroom bell. The words "heart-attack" formed swiftly in his mind, to be displaced by the still more alarming thought, "No soap." He opened the door almost nervously.
"Did you ring, my lord?" he demanded of Lord Peter's head, alone visible.