Irene reappeared at the door, breathless.
“Miss Nettleship’s very sorry, there’s no more boiling water,” she announced defiantly, and disappeared before the Greek gentleman could do more than look at her, which he did as disagreeably as was possible in the time.
“I am sorry,” he remarked gravely to the object of his benevolence.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Lydia, smiling.
“But it’s not right,” cried Mr. Bulteel, as though sheer distress were compelling him to break into the conversation contrary to his will, and certainly contrary to his usual habit.
“It’s not right. One pays for tea, and one ought to have it. She never deducts a meal like tea from the bill, even if one hasn’t had it.”
His wife tittered shrilly.
“I should think she didn’t! It’s disgraceful the way that woman charges for the food. No one ever has a second helping.”
The room became animated on the instant.
Mr. Bulteel had introduced one of those topics, that, from sheer force of unending discussion in the past, become eagerly acclaimed as suitable for unending discussion in the present.