“Not at all,”
“I couldn’t help it. I felt so drowsy with you reading. I did enjoy it, Basil.”
“It’s something to write a book which is a soporific,” he answered, smiling grimly.
“Do read me some more, I’m wide awake now, and it was beautiful.”
“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll do a little work.”
A few days later Jenny’s mother, who had seen neither Basil nor the house, paid them a visit. She was a stout woman with a determined manner, and wore a black satin dress so uneasily as to suggest it was her Sunday best; it gave her a queer feeling that the days had got mixed, and a Sabbath come somehow in the middle of the week. Against Basil’s will, Jenny insisted on keeping for special occasions their nicest things, and when they were alone made tea in an earthenware pot.
“You don’t mind if I don’t get out the silver teapot, ma?” she asked, when they sat down. “We don’t use it every day.”
“No more do I come and see you every day, my dear,” answered Mrs. Bush, gloomily stroking her black satin.
“But I suppose I’m nobody now you’re married. Don’t you sit down at table for tea?”
“Basil likes to have it in the drawing-room,” answered Jenny, pouring milk in the bottom of each cup.