temperament, like most women who are very physical."
"Oh," said Teresa, with a contemptuous droop of her eyelids. "You'll be saying next that she's spiritual."
"I do say it—she is. She's thoroughly mystical—something you never can comprehend, you little pagan!"
Again Basil put his arm round his wife, and again she repelled him, gently, but with unmistakable irritation.
"Why, Teresa, what is it?" he demanded. "What's gone wrong—don't you like me any more?"
"No, I don't. You're too horrid," she replied with decision.
"Well, tell me how," said Basil, drawing a breath of relief. Usually when Teresa was offended she retreated into a blank silence; when he could get her to express her grievance he knew it was already half forgiven.
"Tell me—I didn't mean to be," he said with a pleading look.
Teresa was the picture of melancholy. The corners of her mouth and her eyelids expressed resignation to all the bitterness of life.
"I think you might have remembered you had an engagement with me—and on this day, too—I daresay you forgot even what day it is—our anniversary dinner"
