Miss Matthews entered the room with a complaint on her lips. Someone had forgotten to open the bathroom window after having a bath, and the room reeked of scent.
“Sorry: my new bath-salts, I expect,” said Stella.
“It is to be hoped you don't marry a poor man,” said Miss Matthews. “I must say, I should have thought you could have found something better to squander your allowance on than your personal appearance. However, no doubt I am wrong. I'm sure I never expect anyone to listen to what I have to say.”
“Will you have grape-fruit?” said Stella, from the sidetable.
“All I want is a cup of tea, and some toast,” said Miss Matthews. “I am not feeling at all well this morning, which is not surprising when one thinks of what I have been through. And Guy home for lunch every day, too! Not that I grudge it, but it all makes more work. And why your Aunt Gertrude should elect to come here to dinner simply to make a lot of unkind remarks about my catering —”
“It's probably that sardine which is making you feel queasy now,” said Guy.
Miss Matthews was so incensed by this malicious suggestion that she could only glare at him; and by way of demonstrating that the sardine had in no way upset her digestion she got up, and in awful silence helped herself to a slice of bacon, and resolutely ate it.
This apparently was ill judged, for when Stella went upstairs half-an-hour later she found her mother, swathed in a lilac-coloured wrapper, coming out of Miss Matthews' room with an empty medicine-glass in her hand, and an expression on her face of pious resignation.
“Hullo!” said Stella. “Aunt Harriet worse?”
Mrs Matthews, who regarded the right to be ill as her sole prerogative, said: “I don't know what you mean by worse, darling. There's nothing whatever the matter with her beyond a slight bilious attack.”