Mr. Julius Bannockburn hung up his hat with a bang and stepped angrily into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Bannockburn was comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with the tea-table at her side and a fire blazing.
"That's right," she said placidly, ignoring her husband's very obvious mental disarray,—"just in time for a cup of tea."
"No tea for me," he said darkly.
"Oh, yes. It'll do you good," she replied, and poured some out.
"By the way, how much do you give for this tea?" Mr. Bannockburn sharply inquired.
"Two-and-eight," she replied.
He grunted. "I get excellent tea in the City which retails at two shillings a pound," he said. "Better than this."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bannockburn, "you don't often have this. This is my tea. You prefer Indian."
"And why so many different kinds of cake?" Mr. Bannockburn went on.