“I know that. You are a foreigner,” said Mrs. Bulteel, much as she might have said, “You are a cannibal.” “But if you were in your own country?”
Then had replied the Greek gentleman morosely:
“I should have no need to say it at all. It is too well known.”
And Mrs. Bulteel, seeing herself defeated, could only cry out in a shaking voice the time-honoured indictment of the English middle classes of whatever is slightly less than blatantly obvious:
“Oh! How sarcastic!”
Nothing could be more evident than that the Greek was indifferent to the charge, or, indeed, to any other that might be proffered against him by his fellow-inmates.
That very Sunday morning had been spent by him in reading a French novel in the drawing-room, whilst almost all the other inmates had decorously attended church.
“Will you keep some tea for Hector?” suggested Mr. Bulteel, as his wife put down the tea-pot and uncrooked her little finger.
“I have come to an arrangement with the manageress about Hector’s tea,” retorted Mrs. Bulteel, with a magnificence that seemed inadequate to the cup of strong tea, and slices of bread-and-butter on a thick plate now probably waiting on the kitchen range for Hector’s return.
“The poor boy is never much later than half-past five, after all, even on week-days.”