Justine Harrison, graduate servant of the American School of Domestic
Science, arrived the next day. If Mrs. Salisbury was half consciously
cherishing an expectation of some one as crisp and cheerful as a
trained nurse might have been, she was disappointed. Justine was simply
a nice, honest-looking American country girl, in a cheap, neat, brown
suit and a dreadful hat. She smiled appreciatively when Alexandra
showed her her attractive little room, unlocked what Sandy saw to be a
very orderly trunk, changed her hot suit at once for the gray gingham
uniform, and went to Mrs. Salisbury's room with great composure, for
instructions. In passing, Alexandra--feeling the situation to be a
little odd, yet bravely, showed her the back stairway and the bathroom,
and murmured something about books being in the little room off the
drawing-room downstairs. Justine smiled brightly.
"Oh, I brought several books with me," she said, "and I subscribe to
two weekly magazines and one monthly. So usually I have enough to read."
"How do you do? You look very cool and comfortable, Justine. Now,
you'll have to find your own way about downstairs. You'll see the
coffee next to the bread box, and the brooms are in the laundry closet.
Just do the best you can. Mr. Salisbury likes dry toast in the
morning--eggs in some way. We get eggs from the milkman; they seem
fresher. But you have to tell him the day before. And I understood that
you'll do most of the washing? Yes. My old Nancy was here day before
yesterday, so there's not much this week." It was in some such
disconnected strain as this that Mrs. Salisbury welcomed and initiated
the new maid.
Justine bowed reassuringly.
"I'll find everything, Madam. And do you wish me to manage and to
market for awhile until you are about again?"
The invalid sent a pleading glance to Sandy.
"Oh, I think my daughter will do that," she said.
"Oh, now, why, Mother?" Sandy asked, in affectionate impatience. "I
don't begin to know as much about it as Justine probably does. Why not
let her?"
"If Madam will simply tell me what sum she usually spends on the
table," said Justine, "I will take the matter in hand."
Mrs. Salisbury hesitated. This was the very stronghold of her
authority. It seemed terrible to her, indelicate, to admit a stranger.
"Well, it varies a little," she said restlessly. "I am not accustomed
to spending a set sum." She addressed her daughter. "You see, I've been
paying Nancy every week, dear," said she, "and the other laundry. And
little things come up--"
"What sum would be customary, in a family this size?" Alexandra asked
briskly of the graduate servant.
Justine was business-like.
"Seven dollars for two persons is the smallest sum we are allowed to
handle," she said promptly. "After that each additional person calls
for three dollars weekly in our minimum scale. Four or five dollars a
week per person, not including the maid, is the usual allowance."
"Mercy! Would that be twenty dollars for table alone?" the mistress
asked. "It is never that now, I think. Perhaps twice a week," she said,
turning to Alexandra, "your father gives me five dollars at the
breakfast table--"
"But, Mother, you telephone and charge at the market, and Lewis & Sons,
too, don't you?" Sandy asked.
"Well, yes, that's true. Yes, I suppose it comes to fully twenty-five
dollars a week, when you think of it. Yes, it probably comes to more.
But it never seems so much, somehow. Well, suppose we say twenty-five--"
"Twenty-five, I'll tell Dad." Alexandra confirmed it briskly.
"I used to keep accounts, years ago," Mrs. Salisbury said plaintively.
"Your father--" and again she turned to her daughter, as if to make
this revelation of her private affairs less distressing by so excluding
the stranger. "Your father has always been the most generous of men,"
she said; "he always gives me more money if I need it, and I try to do
the best I can." And a little annoyed, in her weakness and helplessness
by this business talk, she lay back on her pillow, and closed her eyes.
"Twenty-five a week, then!" Alexandra said, closing the talk by jumping
up from a seat on her mother's bed, and kissing the invalid's eyes in
parting. Justine, who had remained standing, followed her down to the
kitchen, where, with cheering promptitude, the new maid fell upon
preparations for dinner. Alexandra rather bashfully suggested what she
had vaguely planned for dinner; Justine nodded intelligently at each
item; presently Alexandra left her, busily making butter-balls, and
went upstairs to report.
"Nothing sensational about her," said Sandy to her mother, "but she
takes hold! She's got some bleaching preparation of soda or something
drying on the sink-board; she took the shelf out of the icebox the
instant she opened it, and began to scour it while she talked. She's
got a big blue apron on, and she's hung a nice clean white one on the
pantry door."
There was nothing sensational about the tray which Justine carried up
to the sick room that evening--nothing sensational in the dinner which
was served to the diminished family. But the Salisbury family began
that night to speak of Justine as the "Treasure."
"Everything hot and well seasoned and nicely served," said the man of
the house in high satisfaction, "and the woman looks like a servant,
and acts like one. Sandy says she's turning the kitchen upside down,
but, I say, give her her head!"
The Treasure, more by accident than design, was indeed given her head
in the weeks that followed, for Mrs. Salisbury steadily declined into a
real illness, and the worried family was only too glad to delegate all
the domestic problems to Justine. The invalid's condition, from
"nervous breakdown" became "nervous prostration," and August was made
terrible for the loving little group that watched her by the cruel
fight with typhoid fever into which Mrs. Salisbury's exhausted little
body was drawn. Weak as she was physically, her spirit never failed
her; she met the overwhelming charges bravely, rallied, sank, rallied
again and lived. Alexandra grew thin, if prettier than ever, and Owen
Sargent grew bold and big and protecting to meet her need. The boys
were "angels," their sister said, helpful, awed and obedient, but the
children's father began to stoop a little and to show gray in the thick
black hair at his temples.
Soberly, sympathetically, Justine steered her own craft through all the
storm and confusion of the domestic crisis. Trays appeared and
disappeared without apparent effort. Hot and delicious meals were ready
at the appointed hours, whether the pulse upstairs went up or down.
Tradespeople were paid; there was always ice; there was always hot
water. The muffled telephone never went unanswered, the doctor never
had to ring twice for admittance. If fruit was sent up to the invalid,
it was icy cold; if soup was needed, it appeared, smoking hot, and
guiltless of even one floating pinpoint of fat.
Alexandra and the trained nurse always found the kitchen the same:
orderly, aired, silent, with Justine, a picture of domestic efficiency,
sitting by the open window, or on the shady side porch, shelling peas
or peeling apples, or perhaps wiping immaculate glasses with an
immaculate cloth at the sink. The ticking clock, the shining range, the
sunlight lying in clean-cut oblongs upon the bright linoleum, Justine's
smoothly braided hair and crisp percales, all helped to form a picture
wonderfully restful and reassuring in troubled days.
Alexandra, tired with a long vigil in the sick room, liked to slip down
late at night, to find Justine putting the last touches to the day's
good work. A clean checked towel would be laid over the rising, snowy
mound of dough; the bubbling oatmeal was locked in the fireless cooker,
doors were bolted, window shades drawn. There was an admirable
precision about every move the girl made.
The two young women liked to chat together, and sometimes, when some
important message took her to Justine's door in the evening, Alexandra
would linger, pleasantly affected by the trim little apartment, the
roses in a glass vase, Justine's book lying open-faced on the bed, or
her unfinished letter waiting on the table. For all exterior signs, at
these times, she might have been a guest in the house.
Promptly, on every Saturday evening, the Treasure presented her account
book to Mr. Salisbury. There was always a small balance, sometimes five
dollars, sometimes one, but Justine evidently had well digested
Dickens' famous formula for peace of mind.
"You're certainly a wonder, Justine!" said the man of the house more
than once. "How do you manage it?"
"Oh, I cut down in dozens of ways," the girl returned, with her grave
smile. "You don't notice it, but I know. You have kidney stews, and
onion soups, and cherry pies, instead of melons and steaks and
ice-cream, that's all!"
"And everyone just as well pleased," he said, in real admiration. "I
congratulate you."
"It's only what we are all taught at college," Justine assured him.
"I'm just doing what they told me to! It's my business."
"It's pretty big business, and it's been waiting a long while," said
Kane Salisbury.
When Mrs. Salisbury began to get well, she began to get very hungry.
This was plain sailing for Justine, and she put her whole heart into
the dainty trays that went upstairs three times a day. While she was
enjoying them, Mrs. Salisbury liked to draw out her clever maid, and
the older woman and the young one had many a pleasant talk together.
Justine told her mistress that she had been country-born and bred, and
had grown up with a country girl's longing for nice surroundings and
education of the better sort.
"My name is not Justine at all," she said smilingly, "nor Harrison,
either, although I chose it because I have cousins of that name. We are
all given names when we go to college and take them with us. Until the
work is recognized, as it must be some day, as dignified and even
artistic, we are advised to sink our own identities in this way."
"You mean that Harrison isn't your name?" Mrs. Salisbury felt this to
be really a little alarming, in some vague way.
"Oh, no! And Justine was given me as a number might have been."
"But what is your name?" The question fell from Mrs. Salisbury as
naturally as an "Ouch!" would have fallen had somebody dropped a
lighted match on her hand. "I had no idea of that!" she went on
artlessly. "But I suppose you told Mr. Salisbury?"
The luncheon was finished, and now Justine stood up, and picked up the
tray.
"No. That's the very point. We use our college names," she reiterated
simply. "Will you let me bring you up a little more custard, Madam?"
"No, thank you," Mrs. Salisbury said, after a second's pause. She
looked a little thoughtful as Justine walked away. There is no real
reason why one's maid should not wear an assumed name, of course.
Still--
"What a ridiculous thing that college must be!" said Mrs. Salisbury,
turning comfortably in her pillows. "But she certainly is a splendid
cook!"
About this point, at least, there was no argument. Justine did not need
cream or sherry, chopped nuts or mushroom sauces to make simple food
delicious. She knew endless ways in which to serve food; potatoes
became a nightly surprise, macaroni was never the same, rice had a
dozen delightful roles. Because the family enjoyed her maple custard or
almond cake, she did not, as is the habit with cooks, abandon every
other flavoring for maple or almond. She was following a broader
schedule than that supplied by the personal tastes of the Salisburys,
and she went her way serenely.
Not so much as a teaspoonful of cold spinach was wasted in these days.
Justine's "left-over" dishes were quite as good as anything else she
cooked; her artful combinations, her garnishes of pastry, her illusive
seasoning, her enveloping and varied sauces disguised and transformed
last night's dinner into a real feast to-night.
The Treasure went to market only twice a week, on Saturdays and
Tuesdays. She planned her meals long beforehand, with the aid of charts
brought from college, and paid cash for everything she bought. She
always carried a large market basket on her arm on these trips, and
something in her trim, strong figure and clean gray gown, as she
started off, appealed to a long-slumbering sense of house-holder's
pride in Mr. Salisbury. It seemed good to him that a person who worked
so hard for him and for his should be so bright and contented looking,
should like her life so well.
Late in September Mrs. Salisbury came downstairs again to a spotless
drawing-room and a dining-room gay with flowers. Dinner was a little
triumph, and after dinner she was escorted to a deep chair, and called
upon to admire new papers and hangings, cleaned rugs and a newly
polished floor.
"You are wonderful, wonderful people, every one of you!" said the
convalescent, smiling eyes roving about her. "Grass paper, Kane, and
such a dear border!" she said. "And everything feeling so clean! And my
darling girl writing letters and seeing people all these weeks! And my
boys so good! And dear old Daddy carrying the real burden for
everyone--what a dreadfully spoiled woman I am! And Justine--come here
a minute, Justine--"
The Treasure, who was clearing the dining-room table, came in, and
smiled at the pretty group, mother and father, daughter and sons, all
rejoicing in being well and together again.
"I don't know how I am ever going to thank you, Justine," said Mrs.
Salisbury, with a little emotion. She took the girl's hand in both her
transparent white ones. "Do believe that I appreciate it," she said.
"It has been a comfort to me, even when I was sickest, even when I
apparently didn't know anything, to know that you were here, that
everything was running smoothly and comfortably, thanks to you. We
could not have managed without you!"
Justine returned the finger pressure warmly, also a little stirred.
"Why, it's been a real pleasure," she said a little huskily. She had to
accept a little chorus of thanks from the other members of the family
before, blushing very much and smiling, too, she went back to her work.
"She really has managed everything," Kane Salisbury told his wife
later. "She handles all the little monthly bills, telephone and gas and
so on; seems to take it as a matter of course that she should."
"And what shall I do now, Kane? Go on that way, for a while anyway?"
asked his wife.
"Oh, by all means, dear! You must take things easy for a while. By
degrees you can take just as much or as little as you want, with the
managing."
"You dear old idiot," the lady said tenderly, "don't worry about that!
It will all come about quite naturally and pleasantly."
Indeed, it was still a relief to depend heavily upon Justine. Mrs.
Salisbury was quite bewildered by the duties that rose up on every side
of her; Sandy's frocks for the fall, the boys' school suits, calls that
must be made, friends who must be entertained, and the opening
festivities of several clubs to which she belonged.
She found things running very smoothly downstairs, there seemed to be
not even the tiniest flaw for a critical mistress to detect, and the
children had added a bewildering number of new names to their lists of
favorite dishes. Justine was asked over and over again for her Manila
curry, her beef and kidney pie, her scones and German fruit tarts, and
for a brown and crisp and savory dish in which the mistress of the
house recognized, under the title of chou farci, an ordinary cabbage as
a foundation.
"Oh, let's not have just chickens or beef," Sandy would plead when a
company dinner was under discussion. "Let's have one of Justine's fussy
dishes. Leave it to Justine!"
For the Treasure obviously enjoyed company dinner parties, and it was
fascinating to Sandy to see how methodically, and with what delightful
leisure, she prepared for them. Two or three days beforehand her
cake-making, silver-polishing, sweeping and cleaning were well under
way, and the day of the event itself was no busier than any other day.
Yet it was on one of these occasions that Mrs. Salisbury first had what
she felt was good reason to criticize Justine. During a brief absence
from home of both boys, their mother planned a rather formal dinner.
Four of her closest friends, two couples, were asked, and Owen Sargent
was invited by Sandy to make the group an even eight. This was as many
as the family table accommodated comfortably, and seemed quite an
event. Ordinarily the mistress of the house would have been fussing for
some days beforehand, in her anxiety to have everything go well, but
now, with Justine's brain and Justine's hands in command of the kitchen
end of affairs, she went to the other extreme, and did not give her own
and Sandy's share of the preparations a thought until the actual day of
the dinner.
For, as was stipulated in her bond, except for a general cleaning once
a week, the Treasure did no work downstairs outside of the dining-room
and kitchen, and made no beds at any time. This meant that the daughter
of the house must spend at least an hour every morning in bed-making,
and perhaps another fifteen minutes in that mysteriously absorbing
business known as "straightening" the living room. Usually Sandy was
very faithful to these duties; more, she whisked through them
cheerfully, in her enthusiastic eagerness that the new domestic
experiment should prove a success.
But for a morning or two before this particular dinner she had shirked
her work. Perhaps the novelty of it was wearing off a little. There was
a tennis tournament in progress at the Burning Woods Country Club, two
miles away from River Falls, and Sandy, who was rather proud of her
membership in this very smart organization, did not want to miss a
moment of it. Breakfast was barely over before somebody's car was at
the door to pick up Miss Salisbury, who departed in a whirl of laughter
and a flutter of bright veils, to be gone, sometimes, for the entire
day.
She had gone in just this way on the morning of the dinner, and her
mother, who had quite a full program of her own for the morning, had
had breakfast in bed. Mrs. Salisbury came downstairs at about ten
o'clock to find the dining-room airing after a sweeping; curtains
pinned back, small articles covered with a dust cloth, chairs at all
angles. She went on to the kitchen, where Justine was beating
mayonnaise.
"Don't forget chopped ice for the shaker, the last thing," Mrs.
Salisbury said, adding, with a little self-conscious rush, "And, oh, by
the way, Justine, I see that Miss Alexandra has gone off again, without
touching the living room. Yesterday I straightened it a little bit, but
I have two club meetings this morning, and I'm afraid I must fly.
If--if she comes in for lunch, will you remind her of it?"
"Will she be back for lunch? I thought she said she would not," Justine
said, in honest surprise.
"No; come to think of it, she won't," her mother admitted, a little
flatly. "She put her room and her brothers' room in order," she added
inconsequently.
Justine did not answer, and Mrs. Salisbury went slowly out of the
kitchen, annoyance rising in her heart. It was all very well for Sandy
to help out about the house, but this inflexible idea of holding her to
it was nonsense!
Ruffled, she went up to her room. Justine had carried away the
breakfast tray, but there were towels and bath slippers lying about, a
litter of mail on the bed, and Mr. Salisbury's discarded linen strewn
here and there. The dressers were in disorder, window curtains were
pinned back for more air, and the coverings of the twin beds thrown
back and trailing on the floor. Fifteen minutes' brisk work would have
straightened the whole, but Mrs. Salisbury could not spare the time
just then. The morning was running away with alarming speed; she must
be dressed for a meeting at eleven o'clock, and, like most women of her
age, she found dressing a slow and troublesome matter; she did not like
to be hurried with her brushes and cold creams, her ruffles and veil.
The thought of the unmade beds did not really trouble her when, trim
and dainty, she went off in a friend's car to the club at eleven
o'clock, but when she came back, nearly two hours later, it was
distinctly an annoyance to find her bedroom still untouched. She was
tired then, and wanted her lunch; but instead she replaced her street
dress with a loose house gown, and went resolutely to work.
Musing over her solitary luncheon, she found the whole thing a little
absurd. There was still the drawing-room to be put in order, and no
reason in the world why Justine should not do it. The girl was not
overworked, and she was being paid thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents
every month! Justine was big and strong, she could toss the little
extra work off without any effort at all.
She wondered why it is almost a physical impossibility for a nice woman
to ask a maid the simplest thing in the world, if she is fairly certain
that that maid will be ungracious about it.
"Dear me!" thought Mrs. Salisbury, eating her chop and salad, her hot
muffin and tart without much heart to appreciate these delicacies, "How
much time I have spent in my life, going through imaginary
conversations with maids! Why couldn't I just step to the pantry door
and say, in a matter-of-fact tone, 'I'm afraid I must ask you to put
the sitting-room in order, Justine. Miss Sandy has apparently forgotten
all about it. I'll see that it doesn't occur again.' And I could
add--now that I think of it--'I will pay you for your extra time, if
you like, and if you will remind me at the end of the month.'"
"Well, she may not like it, but she can't refuse," was her final
summing up. She went out to the kitchen with a deceptive air of
composure.
Justine's occupation, when Mrs. Salisbury found her, strengthened the
older woman's resolutions. The maid, in a silent and spotless kitchen,
was writing a letter. Sheets of paper were strewn on the scoured white
wood of the kitchen table; the writer, her chin cupped in her hand, was
staring dreamily out of the kitchen window. She gave her mistress an
absent smile, then laid down her pen and stood up.
"I'm writing here," she explained, "so that I can catch the milkman for
the cream."
Mrs. Salisbury knew that it was useless to ask if everything was in
readiness for the evening's event. From where she stood she could see
piles of plates already neatly ranged in the warming oven, peeled
potatoes were soaking in ice water in a yellow bowl, and the parsley
that would garnish the big platter was ready, crisp and fresh in a
glass of water.
"Well, you look nice and peaceful," smiled the mistress. "I am just
going to dress for a little tea, and I may have to look in at the
opening of the Athenaeum Club," she went on, fussing with a frill at
her wrist, "so I may be as late as five. But I'll bring some flowers
when I come. Miss Alexandra will probably be at home by that time, but
if she isn't--if she isn't, perhaps you would just go in and straighten
the living room, Justine? I put things somewhat in order yesterday, and
dusted a little, but, of course, things get scattered about, and it
needs a little attention. She may of course be back in time to do it--"
Her voice drifted away into casual silence. She looked at Justine
expectantly, confidently. The maid flushed uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry," she said frankly. "But that's against one of our rules,
you know. I am not supposed to--"
"Not ordinarily, I understand that," Mrs. Salisbury agreed quickly.
"But in an emergency--"
Again she hesitated. And Justine, with the maddening gentleness of the
person prepared to carry a point at all costs, answered again:
"It's the rule. I'm sorry; but I am not supposed to."
"I should suppose that you were in my house to make yourself useful to
me," Mrs. Salisbury said coldly. She used a tone of quiet dignity; but
she knew that she had had the worst of the encounter. She was really a
little dazed by the firmness of the rebuff.
"They make a point of our keeping to the letter of the law," Justine
explained.
"Not knowing what my particular needs are, nor how I like my house to
be run, is that it?" the other woman asked shrewdly.
"Well--" Justine hung upon an embarrassed assent. "But perhaps they
won't be so firm about it as soon as the school is really established,"
she added eagerly.
"No; I think they will not!" Mrs. Salisbury agreed with a short laugh,
"inasmuch as they CANNOT, if they ever hope to get any foothold at all!"
And she left the kitchen, feeling that in the last remark at least she
had scored, yet very angry at Justine, who made this sort of warfare
necessary.
"If this sort of thing keeps up, I shall simply have to let her GO!"
she said.
But she was trembling, and she came to a full stop in the front hall.
It was maddening; it was unbelievable; but that neglected half hour of
work threatened to wreck her entire day. With every fiber of her being
in revolt, she went into the sitting-room.
This was Alexandra's responsibility, after all, she said to herself.
And, after a moment's indecision, she decided to telephone her daughter
at the Burning Woods Club.
"Hello, Mother," said Alexandra, when a page had duly informed her that
she was wanted at the telephone. Her voice sounded a little tired,
faintly impatient. "What is it, Mother?"
"Why, I ought to go to Mary Bell's tea, dearie, and I wanted just to
look in at the Athenaeum--" Mrs. Salisbury began, a little
inconsequently. "How soon do you expect to be home?" she broke off to
ask.
"I don't know," said Sandy lifelessly.
"Are you coming back with Owen?"
"No," Sandy said, in the same tone. "I'll come back with the Prichards,
I guess, or with one of the girls. Owen and the Brice boy are taking
Miss Satterlee for a little spin up around Feather Rock."
"Miss WHO?" But Mrs. Salisbury knew very well who Miss Satterlee was. A
pretty and pert and rowdyish little dancer, she had managed to
captivate one or two of the prominent matrons of the club, and was much
in evidence there, to the great discomfort of the more conservative
Sandy and her intimates.
Now Sandy's mother ended the conversation with a few very casual
remarks, in not too sympathetic or indignant a vein. Then, with heart
and mind in anything but a hospitable or joyous state, she set about
the task of putting the sitting room in order. She abandoned once and
for all any hope of getting to her club or her tea that afternoon, and
was therefore possessed of three distinct causes of grievance.
With her mother heart aching for the quiet misery betrayed by Sandy's
voice, she could not blame the girl. Nor could she blame herself. So
Justine got the full measure of her disapproval, and, while she worked,
Mrs. Salisbury refreshed her soul with imaginary conversations in which
she kindly but firmly informed Justine that her services were no longer
needed--
However, the dinner was perfect. Course smoothly followed course; there
was no hesitating, no hitch; the service was swift, noiseless,
unobtrusive. The head of the house was obviously delighted, and the
guests enthusiastic.
Best of all, Owen arrived early, irreproachably dressed, if a little
uncomfortable in his evening clothes, and confided to Sandy that he had
had a "rotten time" with Miss Satterlee.
"But she's just the sort of little cat that catches a dear, great big
idiot like Owen," said Sandy to her mother, when the older woman had
come in to watch the younger slip into her gown for the evening's
affair.
"Look out, dear, or I will begin to suspect you of a tendresse in that
direction!" the mother said archly.
"For Owen?" Sandy raised surprised brows. "I'm mad about him, I'd marry
him to-night!" she went on calmly.
"If you really cared, dear, you couldn't use that tone," her mother
said uncomfortably. "Love comes only once, REAL love, that is--"
"Oh, Mother! There's no such thing as real love," Sandy said
impatiently. "I know ten good, nice men I would marry, and I'll bet you
did, too, years ago, only you weren't brought up to admit it! But I
like Owen best, and it makes me sick to see a person like Rose
Satterlee annexing him. She'll make him utterly wretched; she's that
sort. Whereas I am really decent, don't you know; I'd be the sort of
wife he'd go crazier and crazier about. He's one of those unfortunate
men who really don't know what they want until they get something they
don't want. They--"
"Don't, dear. It distresses me to hear you talk this way," Mrs.
Salisbury said, with dignity. "I don't know whether modern girls
realize how dreadful they are," she went on, "but at least I needn't
have my own daughter show such a lack of--of delicacy and of
refinement." And in the dead silence that followed she cast about for
some effective way of changing the subject, and finally decided to tell
Sandy what she thought of Justine.
But here, too, Sandy was unsympathetic. Scowling as she hooked the
filmy pink and silver of her evening gown, Sandy took up Justine's
defense.
"All up to me, Mother, every bit of it! And, honestly now, you had no
right to ask her to do--"
"No right!" Exasperated beyond all words, Mrs. Salisbury picked up her
fan, gathered her dragging skirts together, and made a dignified
departure from the room. "No right!" she echoed, more in pity than
anger. "Well, really, I wonder sometimes what we are coming to! No
right to ask my servant, whom I pay thirty-seven and a half dollars a
month, to stop writing letters long enough to clean my sitting room!
Well, right or wrong, we'll see!"
But the cryptic threat contained in the last words was never carried
out. The dinner was perfect, and Owen was back in his old position as
something between a brother and a lover, full of admiring great laughs
for Sandy and boyish confidences. There was not a cloud on the evening
for Mrs. Salisbury. And the question of Justine's conduct was laid on
the shelf.