Before going to the office next morning, I accompanied Letitia to the
florist's. She was determined to select the table decorations herself.
Later on, she declared, when Anna had become acclimatized and our way of
living was to her as an open book, Letitia promised to leave everything
to her. We were rather surprised at the cost of the flowers Letitia
coveted. Orchids and American Beauty roses appealed to her strongly, and
she paid no attention to less expensive blooms. Not that I minded. This
little dinner really meant a good deal to me. Besides being a personal
friend of mine, Arthur Tamworth was my senior partner, and it was upon
him that I relied for the publication of my _Lives of Great Men_, a work
that was to make my name ring through the land and perhaps, through the
ages. In fact, I delighted to do him honor, and if my motives were
somewhat selfish, they were not less so than those of the majority. This
is a practical age.
Letitia went home, flower-laden and smiling. She was neither when I
returned at five o'clock. In fact, she seemed distinctly weary and her
kiss was more perfunctory than any I had hitherto experienced at her
lips.
"Anna is so surly, Archie," she said droopingly, "that I simply can't
cope with her. She is furious at the idea of being late at her class.
This was to be her great night, she says, as she was to sing _With
Verdure Clad_, and she seems indignant. I was kind though firm. I
insinuated--though I didn't say so--that her verdure would keep, and
that my dinner must be served properly."
"Quite right, dear."
"I felt it was a sort of crisis," Letitia continued, "a kind of tide in
the affairs of the household. Then her sister came, and I suggested that
if Anna liked, the girl could remain and wait at table."
"But does she know how?" I asked.
"What is there to know?" queried Letitia, with a tinge of annoyance.
"Anybody can wait at table. It is very simple. Anna seemed pleased, or,
rather, not displeased. But she is very sulky and I have arranged the
flowers on the table myself. I've never worked so hard in my life and I
feel quite tired out. But I realize, dear, that one must do something
useful--at least at the beginning of housekeeping. I have also placed
the _hors d'oeuvres_ on the table. It all looks very charming."
"Poor Letitia!" I exclaimed, stroking her hair, "I hate the idea of your
laboring. You mustn't do it again. I have no doubt but that Anna could
have done it all, but as she was so cross you were right to heap coals
of fire on her head. She is probably remorseful enough by this time."
"No," Letitia remarked thoughtfully, "I don't believe that Anna has a
remorseful nature. The colored disposition--I mean by that the
disposition of the colored people--is peculiar, Archie. When we have
quite settled down, I shall study Anna, psychologically."
"In the meantime, dear," I said, airily jocular, "let us hope that the
_crème d'asperges_ won't be too psychological."
Letitia looked a picture in blue _crêpe de chine_, with her beautiful
neck and shoulders emerging from one of those spidery lace effects that
render the masculine pen impotent. Her _trousseau_ contained so many
evening dresses that one might have imagined that our entire life was to
be spent at night, and that morning counted for absolutely nothing. Some
of the orchids, remaining from the table decorations, Letitia wore at
her bosom, and one exquisite American Beauty rose nestled in the golden
glories of her hair.
"You see how economical I am, Archie," she said, "for instead of
throwing away the superfluous flowers, I wear them. Aunt Julia says that
the essence of good housekeeping consists in utilizing everything."
We sat in the drawing-room to await Arthur Tamworth, and although we
both made an admirable feint of ease and nonchalance, it was so
obviously a feint that we gave it up, and simply killed time. Of course,
we were both accustomed to dinners and receptions--in fact, we had been
nourished on them. But other people's affairs are--other people's
affairs. This was ours, and our first, and there is no use concealing
the fact that we were both nervous. Letitia read Ovid, upside down, and
seemed to derive intellectual entertainment from it, judging by her
face. I merely looked out of the window, not to watch for Tamworth's
advent, but because the window seemed to be such a fitting place to look
out of.
When the bell finally rang, Letitia had the decency to adjust Ovid, and
I stood by the fireplace in an unstudied, host-like way, with my hands
behind me, although there had never been any warmth in that fireplace
and never would be--as long as we had steam-heat for nothing.
As we waited, a colored head and nothing more popped in at the door,
and the younger Miss Carter--for it must have been she--remarked:
"There's a man outside who wants to come in."
"Never let any one in," I said sternly, for there had been an epidemic
of burglars, while suspicious characters simply prowled, seeking whom
they might devour. "Always keep the chain on the door."
"He says he's come to dinner," remarked the colored head, with a
chuckle.
Letitia jumped up as though shot. I felt myself redden. Under the
caption of "man" we had not recognized Arthur Tamworth. Of course, he
was a man in the best sense of the word, but the best sense of the word
is not polite society's. I rushed to the door in a fever, and unchained
it noisily. Arthur Tamworth stood outside looking just a trifle
annoyed--but not more annoyed than I was.
"Come in, old chap," I said, with elaborate cordiality, "we were waiting
for you. The maid who opened the door was not our maid, you know--merely
her sister--and--er--"
"That's all right, Fairfax," Arthur Tamworth declared, as he shook my
hand, "I didn't know what I had struck. Having, however, lived in New
York all my life, I know something about the ladies who help. Hope I'm
not late?"
I insisted that this was Liberty Hall--a remark that is always supposed
to put all at their ease. Then I escorted him to the drawing-room where
Letitia stood, peerless in her blue diaphanous gown. Mr. Tamworth was so
engrossed with Letitia's appearance that he did not notice the
tiger-head, and tripping over it, fell at her feet. I assisted him to
rise and introduced him to my wife. His fall, however, had irritated him
a bit. He was much older than we were, being a somewhat portly person of
fifty summers, with iron-gray hair and a florid complexion.
"I'm so sorry," said Letitia graciously, "Archie and I always fall over
that tiger-head, and have really grown to like it. But it is a stupid
thing--very much in the way."
"I always think, Mrs. Fairfax," Mr. Tamworth remarked, rubbing his shin,
"that tiger-heads are meant to trip people up. And the worst of them is
that they are always so hard. They must be stuffed with rocks."
Letitia's delightful manner, however, soon restored his equanimity. She
talked to him so gracefully, so appealingly, so irresistibly, that
Arthur Tamworth was under the spell of her presence long before we went
in to dinner. I felt proud of her as she held--in the palm of her hand,
as it were--this worldly, rotund person. The fate of my _Lives of Great
Men_ seemed to be settled. Mr. Tamworth did not wear evening dress, but
affected that horrible garb known as a "business suit," with a rude,
short coat. This annoyed me, as I was afraid that Letitia would think my
friend lacking in respect. In fact, she looked extremely surprised when,
just before we moved toward the dining-room, he said: "Had I known we
were going to the opera to-night, Mrs. Fairfax, I should have dressed.
But Archie did not tell me."
"We are not going to the opera, Mr. Tamworth," Letitia responded, her
eyes betraying her astonishment. "Why should you think so?" Then, with a
charming determination to make him feel comfortable, she added: "Archie
and I dress for each other. I like him better than any audience at the
Metropolitan, and he has the same sort of regard for me."
Wasn't it pretty? Mr. Tamworth remarked, "You're a lucky dog, Fairfax,"
and then Letitia took his arm, and we set forth for the dining-room,
cheerful and expectant. I noticed that Tamworth took particular heed of
the tiger-head this time. The dignity of our march was also impaired by
the fact that the bathroom door stood wide open, and if it had not been
for Letitia's presence of mind, we should all have marched in.
Nothing could have looked more fairy-like than the dining-room, except,
perhaps, fairy-land itself. Mr. Tamworth's face expanded in a pleasant
smile at the mere anticipation of the dinner that awaited him. The
orchids, framed in maiden-hair fern, were exquisite, and the roses in
long vases of opalescent glass were fragrant as well as beautiful. At
each place was a dainty menu-card, bearing misty little water-color
pictures. Mr. Tamworth's was called "Children at Play," which did not
seem appropriate, but was nevertheless neat and well-done.
The _hors d'oeuvres_ passed off admirably. Letitia was lively, Mr.
Tamworth was wonderfully loquacious, and I sat and reveled in their
clever encounters of wit. Letitia and I scarcely touched the olives, and
the _anchois à l'huile_, but Mr. Tamworth seemed hungry, and partook of
them as though there were nothing to follow. Then Letitia touched a
little bell, and after what seemed an eternity the younger Miss Carter
appeared. I could not help gasping when I saw her. She wore a
coffee-colored dress with bright yellow ribbons, and nestling in her
woolly hair--in the style affected by Letitia--was a rose, most red and
artificial. On her face was a broad grin. I looked at Letitia, and saw
that she was flushed but endeavoring to overcome her vexation.
Tamworth's gaze appeared to be riveted upon the picture of "Children at
Play."
"Will you take _consommé julienne_, or _crème d'asperges_?" asked
Letitia, nervously fingering her dinner-card, and trying to smile in an
unconcerned way upon Mr. Tamworth.
Mr. Tamworth selected the _crème d'asperges_; so did Letitia and I. My
wife whispered to the Zulu in yellow: "Asparagus soup for everybody,"
rather anxiously, and then turning to our guest tried to think of
something to say. I say, tried to think, because, at that moment, voices
were heard in the kitchen, which was as near to us as the bathroom. In
fact, the voices seemed as though they were in the dining-room.
"They'll all take sparrowgrass soup," said the younger Miss Carter, with
a loud laugh.
"Oh, they will, will they?" retorted the elder Miss Carter. "You jes'
ask 'em how they're a-goin to do it. They'll take what I've made, or
they'll leave it. I don't know nothin' about no sparrowgrass. She's
crazy, askin' for two different soups. Here. You take in them three
bowls o' veg., and no back talk. I'm sick and tired of this kind o'
monkey business. You bet I am. And just you hurry, Sylvia; we're
a-missin' all of our choruses, and--"
By some horrid, demoniac freak of fate, we sat hatefully and
relentlessly silent. In vain I tried to think up some remark--be it ever
so banal--that would distract Tamworth's attention. I could see that
Letitia was in the same quandary. Not an idea lurked in my mind. Even
the weather failed. Each word from the kitchen reached us as though by
megaphone. Letitia's lip trembled, as she sat, apparently racking her
brain for something--anything--to say. It was too cruel.
"Take in the veg. soup, and if you drop it I'll skin you," sang out Miss
Carter.
Rescue came, but it was too late. "You really have a charming little
apartment, Mrs. Fairfax," said Arthur Tamworth diplomatically, "I don't
know when I've seen prettier appointments."
A dainty soup-plate was placed before each of us by the grinning maiden.
Sylvia, if you please--Sylvia! It was "beef soup and vegetables" with a
vengeance. It stood in a solid mass in each plate and there seemed to be
everything in it but soup. It approached the spoon with glutinous
reluctance and appeared to be begging to be cut with a knife and put
quickly out of its misery.
"Oh, I'm so sorry about the _crème d'asperges_," Letitia murmured, her
lips parched, and a fever spot on each cheek, "I suppose that she
didn't understand."
"This is delicious, Mrs. Fairfax," said Arthur Tamworth nobly, "there is
nothing I like better than good _consommé julienne_. I really prefer it
to the other."
We did not sip our soup, but we worked at it. It tasted like boiled
everything, served up with the water. There were nasty little flecks of
red and streaks of yellow in it. One expected anything, at each
spoonful. Not if I had been starving, could I have eaten it. Arthur
Tamworth plodded along laboriously, like a youth with his way to make in
the world, and Letitia, as hostess, evidently felt bound by the rules of
etiquette to do what she could. She had recovered her equanimity,
wonderful little girl!
"As we were saying before dinner," she remarked, trying not to look at
the odious Sylvia, as she clattered away the plates, "the modern novel
does seem to have deteriorated. If you consider all these irritating
romances, so vastly inferior to the splendid imaginings of Dumas, you
must admit the weakness, the effeminacy of such efforts to-day. It
assuredly does seem as though all virility had departed from the modern
band of so-called romance-weavers--"
Letitia's effort at "polite conversation" suddenly ceased. The _homard
naturel_ arrived and we could scarcely believe our eyes. Instead of the
splendid crustacean that we had anticipated--the glowing macrurous
delicacy that we had expected to see crouching in a juggle of
water-cress--a hideous can, with a picture of a lobster on it, was
placed before me. The can had been opened, and there, in poisonous
looking obsequiousness, lurked our _homard naturel_.
"This is absurd," I said, and my voice shook. Tamworth was an old
friend, but sometimes old friends respond to insult, apparently
deliberate.
"I--I--can't understand," Letitia managed to say. "What--what is it?"
"Simply a can of lobster," replied Arthur Tamworth, with a pleasant
smile; "and very good it is, too, no doubt. Suppose you assist us,
Fairfax, and cease looking as though you had lost all your available
relatives, and your wife's as well."
To say that I felt mortified was to put the matter mildly. The fact that
Tamworth was generously trying to make the best of things irritated me
the more. After all, at a little dinner, one does not want charity, even
though it be supposed to "begin at home." I was too overcome to eat,
though I saw Letitia frowning at me and noticed that she was partaking
liberally. I was so angry that I could have torn up my dinner-card. The
"Children at Play" on Tamworth's did not seem so awfully inappropriate,
after all. "Children Playing at Dinner" would have been more to the
point, though.
"What are your views on the servant question, Mrs. Fairfax?" asked
Arthur Tamworth lightly, as he toyed with a piece of what looked like
brick-red india-rubber. "Do you know"--with a smile--"that I am studying
it? Positively I am."
A look of freezing severity appeared on Letitia's face. In a voice
shiveringly Arctic, she asked: "What _is_ the servant question, Mr.
Tamworth? I have never heard of it. If you imagine--"
"Not at all, Mrs. Fairfax, not at all"--he made the rejoinder
quickly--"I do not imagine that you will let it upset you. But,
honestly, it is one of the topics of the day."
"With silly women, lacking in intellectuality," interposed my wife, with
the sublimest inflection of contempt that I have ever heard. "Brainless
women must talk about something. They have no interest in the life
beautiful and artistic. Rather than adopt a policy of silence which
would effectually cover their mental shortcomings, they discuss the
kitchen and food. At least, I am told that they do. Personally, I do
not know. I do not associate with them."
Letitia was very busy with the cold mummy, masquerading before her as
_homard naturel_. She did not see the look of amusement on Arthur
Tamworth's face. I saw it, however, and it was gall and wormwood to me.
I hated to believe that he regarded Letitia as a joke. I had no sympathy
with jokes, except when I uttered them myself, as the spontaneous
bubbles of an exuberant spirit.
"Seriously, Mrs. Fairfax," continued my guest, laying aside his fork
with a sigh of relief that seemed to say, "well done, thou good and
faithful servant"; "it is not only the brainless ladies who talk
servant. Why, some of the best people are contemplating a Women's
Domestic Guild. There is, for instance, Mrs. Russell Sage--"
"Ha! Ha!" laughed Letitia. "Is she the best example you can find, Mr.
Tamworth? I have no doubt but that Mrs. Sage, at a pinch, could cook her
own dinner. Stew, probably, followed by baked apples. Really, Mr.
Tamworth--"
"I read an interview with a Mrs. Joseph Healey, the other day," said Mr.
Tamworth placidly; "I cut it out. I think I have it with me. Ah,
yes"--rescuing a newspaper clipping from his pocket--"hark at this:
'Owing to the incompetency of servant girls, housekeepers, too, are
compelled, more and more, to buy cooked food for their tables. The
growth of the delicatessen business in recent years has been
startling--'"
Letitia sat bolt upright, suddenly. The paragraph seemed to sear itself
into my brain.
"'Many families,'" he went on, "'live almost continuously on ham and
potato salad, which is usually kept in an ice-box two or three days
until it is absolutely unfit to be eaten. The servant-girl question is,
therefore, not only breaking up the American home, but serving to break
down the national health.'"
I tried to pretend that I was not looking at Letitia. Letitia tried to
pretend that she was not looking at me. The dual attempt was a failure.
We each knew that we were contemplating the other.
"Perhaps it is true," said Letitia airily, "perhaps. At any rate, it
reads well in the newspapers, Mr. Tamworth. Sylvia"--to the Zulu--"you
can bring in the next course. It is _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_."
When it arrived we would have given worlds to have been able to resume
our discussion. It was then that we really needed to talk--and it was
then that we couldn't! We could simply sit and gaze at the travesty.
Conversation, which should be so serviceable as a stop-gap, failed us
completely. All we could see was a sort of coal-black chest-protector on
a large dish, and some boiled potatoes swimming in water on another.
"She didn't _soufflé_ the potatoes," murmured Letitia tremulously.
"They are not even _maître d'hôtel_," I suggested feebly.
"You see," said Letitia apologetically, as I hacked at the
chest-protector furiously, "Anna is in such a hurry to get to her
singing class that she is at a disadvantage--"
"Singing class!" exclaimed Mr. Tamworth, laughing. "How funny! I must
make a note of it. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Fairfax. You see, I'm
really studying--"
"I do mind," retorted my wife quite irritably. "I quite see that we have
given you material for study. Still, it is disagreeable to reflect that
our little--"
"My dear Mrs. Fairfax," he cried, genuinely distressed, "please believe
that I am not serious. I only want you to feel that I do not share your
annoyance. This--why, all this amuses me. It is interesting. It is
great. Look at my good friend, Fairfax, wearing an expression that
suggests Hamlet in his most melancholy moment. Why? I ask you, why?"
"I--I--I'm glad you feel that way about it," said Letitia, with tears in
her eyes, "but--but perhaps, you are just pretending--to make me feel
comfortable."
"It is good of you, old chap," I muttered, feeling as abject as though I
had just put out my hand for alms and Arthur had popped a nickel into
it.
"How absurd!" he laughed. "Why, I'm a great diner-out, and I know all
about it, and--shall I read you a bit more about the Women's Domestic
Guild?"
"I don't think I could stand it," Letitia said tremulously. "Sometime,
perhaps, Mr. Tamworth, but not to-night. There are still the
ices--_glaces aux fraises_. They can't be burnt. They can't be boiled in
water."
_They_ were not. _They_ were brought on, in a dingy cardboard box,
marked with the name of the purveyor, and the legend: "Ice-cream
saloon--Columbus Avenue." _They_ appeared on the edge of Sylvia's
finger, balanced by a loop of tape. The cardboard box oozed and
perspired. The lid was stuck down. Pink splashes dripped.
"Anna says to tell you," giggled the wide-mouthed Sylvia, "that she got
American ice-cream. The French is ten cents more, and there ain't no
difference."
This time Arthur Tamworth laughed without an apology. Probably he had a
sense of humor, and thought it funny to see my poor little exquisitely
attired wife, sitting at the head of her orchid-laden table, and
confronted with a question of "ten cents more." That is exactly what a
sense of humor achieves. Again, I protest that it is a curse. Mute
sympathy would have been more endurable than loud mirth.
Letitia left us while we smoked. She did not go to the drawing-room,
but--as I learned afterward--retired to her bedroom to weep. When we
joined her later, her eyes were red and swollen. She had lowered the
lights, so that this fact should not be too glaringly evident. We sat
and talked. I will do Arthur Tamworth the justice to say that he was
quite unperturbed and made strenuous efforts to be entertaining. But the
tone of our conversation suggested a house of mourning. Absolute failure
had benumbed us into a sort of mental paralysis. I kept looking at the
clock--longing for my guest to go. Letitia yawned persistently, although
she made brave efforts to appear alert. But he stayed until eleven
o'clock, and when he did go, remarked, with what I thought ill-timed
irony, "I've had a delightful time."
"Never--never have I felt so small," Letitia almost sobbed, as soon as
we were alone. "And, Archie, I feel so ill, too. That brutal lobster--I
_had_ to eat it, and it won't digest. Capped by the terrible beef-steak,
it has nearly done for me."
"Why did you eat it?" I asked querulously, "I didn't."
"If a hostess can't eat her own food, who can?" she demanded furiously.
"I would have eaten it, if ptomaine germs had arisen from it, and
introduced themselves. I hope I know my duty, and I hope that I am not
weak enough to shirk it. Mr. Tamworth ate a lot of it."
"He'll die in the night," I suggested cheerfully, "and then good-by to
my _Lives of Great Men_. It was not _homard naturel_. It was unnatural.
That being the case, you might have refused it, Letitia. It would have
been excusable."
"We won't argue the matter, Archie," she retorted, "I have my own ideas
of what is right. To place food before an inoffensive person--though I
consider your partner was a trifle offensive--and then reject it
yourself, is not quite etiquette."
"Would you eat it again to-morrow, under the same circumstances?"
Letitia shuddered. "Yes," she said promptly. Then, "No. Yes, I would.
No, I wouldn't. Really, I can't say, Archie. What is the use of
suggesting such an impossible case? I think I would eat it. But I don't
think I could."
"Poor old girl!" I remarked sympathetically. "We'll try and forget it. I
don't know how I shall dare to go to the office to-morrow, though. I
dare say that Tamworth won't be there. He'll be in bed. I thought he
looked rather feverish just before he left, didn't you, Letitia? His
gaiety seemed a bit forced, and I noticed once or twice that he gasped
as though he were in pain."
"The Women's Domestic Guild!" laughed Letitia scornfully. "A nice
subject to bring up at a dinner party! I call it indecent--like washing
one's soiled linen in public. Of course, there are old frumps who like
that kind of topic."
"Aunt Julia?" I suggested.
"I did not mean Aunt Julia, Archie. She is not an old frump, though I
admit that it was from her lips that I first heard servant question.
However--I wonder if we have any ginger in the house, Archie? You shall
mix me a little. It might ward off an attack. Perhaps a little weak
whisky and water will be better."
"I'm so sorry, dear," I said. "We have discovered one thing, however. It
is the utter incompetency of Anna. Out of the house she goes to-morrow.
Once bit, twice shy. What do you say, Letitia?"
"Will you tell her, Archie? I'm afraid I shan't feel well enough."
"Tell her? Why, of course," I answered, nobly emphatic. "I only wish she
were here now, while I have this strenuous mood upon me. Tell her? Well,
I guess so."
In fact, we both believed that Miss Carter was simply waiting to be
told.