CHAPTER XVIII

There were evidently difficulties in the way of the immediate annexation

of Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle. When I reached home next evening I found

Letitia in cookless solitude, a dinnerless dining-room, and the

indications of another restaurant repast. My wife looked somewhat

excited, as though she had much to tell me, and I felt that, perchance,

the course of French cook did not run smooth. I had arrived at the stage

when nothing connected with the domestic life could surprise me; I was

persistently prepared for the worst, and quite disposed to regard the

best as a luxury. Possibly in time I should even grow philosophic--not

that I owned the temperament of the confirmed philosopher.

When we were seated at table, in our selected restaurant, and I had

chosen the lesser of two evils--or of two soups--Letitia's pent-up

excitement burst forth, and--well, conversation did not flag.

"It is going to be so very much more expensive than I thought, Archie,"

she said. "I called upon Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle to-day, and found

her exceedingly distinguished--I might almost say haughty. She spoke

English as well as I do, and I could scarcely realize that she was

French. Her aptitude for languages, she told me, was quite remarkable.

Everything seemed satisfactory, until--until she asked about--about the

butler. Had we a reliable butler? She considered a docile, reliable

butler almost indispensable. I know I turned scarlet, for I felt quite

humiliated as I had to inform her that we didn't keep a butler."

The soup had made its appearance, but Letitia was too engrossed to touch

it. I was not.

"She smiled rather provokingly," continued Letitia, "but told me not to

be discouraged. She has a nephew, a respectable young man, born here,

whom she has been coaching in the duties of a butler. She suggested that

he would be of great value and comfort to us, as, being her relative,

she could work with him in perfect harmony."

"But you know, my girl," I interrupted rather testily, "that we couldn't

put up a butler. There isn't space in this apartment, unless--unless he

roomed with his aunt."

"I warn you, Archie, that if you begin to be funny--"

"I can't think of any other way in which we could accommodate a butler.

A nice Japanese screen in his aunt's room--"

Letitia was a lovely subject to tease. She took everything to heart so

promptly! It seems an undignified confession to make, but my little wife

never amused me more than when she was in rebellion at what she called

my levity. After all, a man must have a little fun in the dreary

drabness of his cookless home.

I continued heartlessly: "If you don't like that idea, I have another.

Rather than deprive Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle of the services of her

dear nephew, we could arrange things this way: you could room with

Madame and I with the butler. You must admit, dear, that there would be

no glaring impropriety in that."

This time Letitia smiled and was saved. She made strenuous efforts to

remain vexed, as I could see, but in spite of herself she was moved to a

suspicion of mirth, and it did her good.

"Don't be a silly boy," she said, "and reserve your ingenuity. We need

it in serious and not frivolous matters. I told Madame de Lyrolle that

we occupied an apartment, which was not particularly spacious, and that

much as we should like to employ her nephew, we could not possibly see

our way to do so. She was disappointed. She then asked me about first

maids, and second maids, and--and oh, Archie, I felt disgraced. I made

up my mind to abandon Madame de Lyrolle."

Letitia paused, and remembered her soup. She toyed with it nonchalantly.

"She spoke quite kindly," resumed Letitia. "Of course, she said, we must

understand that she never left her kitchen. As for doing anything else

but cooking and decorating the table in case of dinner parties--that

would be impossible. She insisted that she was an artist; that she had

real temperament; that she was occasionally inspired, and then again

depressed."

"That means a depressed dinner from time to time," I muttered gloomily.

"No," said Letitia firmly, "not if surrounding conditions are

auspicious. I quite understood her sentiments, Archie. They were not at

all unreasonable. The artistic temperament does not lurk merely with

third-rate actors or fourth-rate novelists. A French cook may assuredly

possess it. She told me that in moments of mental exaltation she has

given to the world dishes of wonderful import. For instance, on one

occasion when her mood was dreamy and mystic, she made a _salmi_ of

black game that the editor of the Paris _Figaro_ said was worthy of

being dramatized. Oh, she talked a good deal, and in a high-falutin'

strain, and I liked her, but--"

"Did you engage her?"

"I am coming to that question. Finally, she told me that as we hadn't a

maid, and as she positively refused to appear in the dining-room

herself, she could merely suggest that if I engaged her, I also engage a

bright young girl, now living with her, a niece--"

"She seems to have quite a family!"

"I saw the girl, who was named Leonie. She was as pretty as a picture.

One could imagine her as the French maid in comedy--one of those dainty

little things that wear fluffy white aprons, and occasionally do a

dance. You know, Archie. The girl seemed quite willing to join her aunt,

but she asked a large salary--more than we paid any of our cooks. So,

you see, I didn't like to engage Madame de Lyrolle without first

consulting you. It will be much more expensive than we thought. In

addition to Madame's exorbitant salary, there will be Leonie,

and--and--do you think we could afford it?"

It is horrid for a young husband to admit to a young wife that there is

anything in the world he can't afford. At least I felt that way. Letitia

waited almost piteously for my reply, and I detested the idea of doing

the poor. She looked unusually pretty, with her flushed face and her

red, emotional lips. Moreover, the dinner was hateful, the cooking

immoral, and the surroundings impossible. I was tempted, and--I fell.

"We might try it, Letitia," I said. "You know my book is nearly

finished, and in a home that _is_ a home, I fancy I can do so much

more."

"Oh, thank you, Archie, thank you. You are a good, brave, noble boy. I

am convinced that you won't regret it, and we shall be so cozy and

happy. I think you are right. We might as well enjoy life while we are

young. I dare say that when we are old we shan't mind bread pudding, and

baked apples, and mutton stew, and--and--hash."

"I shall always loathe hash," I asserted vehemently.

Our dinner ended delightfully. We could not eat the food, but the meal

was intellectual rather than material. We chatted affably, and no

outsider could possibly have imagined that we were married. Our manner

was that of the newly engaged.

"Of course, Madame de Lyrolle is Americanized," said Letitia. "I could

see that. In Paris, cooks, chambermaids and nurses receive just about

half the wages they get here. Servants in France are quite oppressed.

They don't know the meaning of a 'Sunday out.' They are dependent upon

the caprices of Monsieur and Madame. And I dare say you know, Archie,

that even in the most luxurious French households the most rigid

economies are practised. Somewhere I read that the refuse that leaves a

French kitchen would starve a small family of rats; which is perhaps the

reason why there are so few rats in Paris."

"It seems almost a pity that she _is_ Americanized, don't you think,

dear?"

"Oh, she could never _quite_ lose her French training, Archie. Perhaps

she is Americanized only in the matters of salary and privileges."

"At any rate," I said, "she won't bathe in the kitchen--or anywhere

else. French people rarely do."

"They have been brought up to dislike water," remarked Letitia

reflectively. "In Paris, even little children are taught that it is

impure and are coaxed to drink claret. Probably by dint of harping on

the impurity of water, they come to the conclusion that it is rather

silly to wash in it. Don't you think so, Archie? It seems to be a trait

of the national character. Yet they are a cleanly race. They don't

advertise their ablutions as we do. In England and America we talk so

much about cold tubs, and the latest improvements in bathroom

apparatus! It is quite indelicate when you come to think of it."

So Letitia went down next morning to secure the Gallic prize with its

Gallic appendage. Madame de Lyrolle had laughed at the idea of

references. She had lived with a Wall Street broker, she told Letitia,

with an air of such importance that it was clear she regarded him in

about the same class as the president of the French Republic. She had

cooked for the French embassy in Washington, and for various people who

had honored places in "Who's Who?"--to say nothing of "What's What."

Most of her references were traveling in Europe. They summered in

England; autumned in France; wintered in Egypt; and sprung--I mean

springed--in Germany. They were Americans, but there never seemed to be

any part of the year that they dedicated to their own country. They had

European resorts for the four seasons of the year. Had there been a

fifth, they might possibly have deigned to spend it in America, but in

default of a supplementary season, they could not be reached in the land

of the free and the home of the brave.

The arrival of Madame de Lyrolle in our modest homestead seemed to be

somewhat revolutionary. At any rate, immediate joy was lacking. The

first view I obtained of Letitia, after the advent of the lady from

France, convinced me that something had crushed her. Her feathers were

ruffled, so to speak. She was sitting pensively in the drawing-room, in

an evening gown, and although her heart's desire, and her heart's

desire's niece, were in the kitchen, there was no exultant satisfaction

visible upon Letitia's mobile features.

"My girl!" I cried, astonished. "I certainly expected to find you in the

seventh heaven!"

"It's nothing, Archie," she said, with an evident effort, as I sat down

beside her; "I am just depressed. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen

with Madame de Lyrolle, at her request, and--and--I feel about an inch

high. I feel cheap, common, and--if you don't mind my being

colloquial--like thirty cents."

She really looked the part. My little wife seemed to have shrunk most

positively.

"Madame de Lyrolle and Leonie," she began, "are both so impressive that

they awed me. The former begged me courteously to explain things to her

in the kitchen before she assumed the reins of management, as she called

it. Naturally I complied with her request, although it seemed to me a

bit unnecessary. The first thing we did was to go through the table

appointments, and--and--you can't imagine how--how humiliating it was."

"Humiliating!" I exclaimed indignantly. "And why, pray?"

"Well, Archie, Madame de Lyrolle appeared to think them inadequate.

There are so many things that we lack. One of her first demands was for

the asparagus tongs, and--and--when I told her that we had never used

any, I saw her smile and--glance at Leonie. And Leonie smiled, too,

and--and then they both smiled together. She asked me if we had

individual asparagus holders, and--and--then there were more smiles."

Letitia's face was burning, and she was apparently re-sampling her

humiliation.

"After that," she continued, "she asked me where we kept the

grape-scissors, and again I had to admit that we had none. 'Oh,' she

remarked quite scornfully, 'and how do you separate grapes? You don't

pull them apart?' Of course we do, Archie, but I dreaded to say so. I

think I stammered, and once more I saw her exchange glances with Leonie.

I could have burst into tears when she asked for the orange cups. It was

absolutely galling. Honestly, I thought they would have left the house

immediately when I confessed to the absence of orange cups. I might

have committed a crime, Madame de Lyrolle looked black, and Leonie

pursed her lips. Madame said that never--never during her artistic

career (those were her words) had she affiliated (her word) with people

who failed in the matter of orange cups."

"I wouldn't use them," I interrupted angrily. "Thank goodness, while I

have my health and strength, I can peel an orange with my good old

fingers and a knife."

"Hush, dear. After the orange-cup episode, she seemed to regard me with

a sort of tender pity. I'm sure she considered me a Goth,

and--and--nobody has ever done that before. To be pitied by one's cook!

Oh, it was horrible. When it came to the silver, which as you know,

dear, is mostly quadruple plate--silver in name only--I was reduced to a

sort of pulp. She and Leonie examined it critically, positively looking

for marks on it, and I should have hated to hear their comments in my

absence. 'I have never served food in anything but sterling silver

before,' said Madame. 'Just imagine my _salmi_ of black game, in an

_entrée_ dish of quadruple plate! Why, the delicacy of the flavor would

be ruined. I'm afraid I shall not be able to achieve a _salmi_."

I began to experience a slight symptom of Letitia's humiliation, as I

realized that while I might one day be a successful author, I could

never--never--be a Wall Street broker!

"I told her," Letitia resumed, bitterly mortified, "that we would try to

do without the _salmi_. We would endeavor to drag on a wretched

existence without black game. I meant this for sarcasm, but it didn't

take. Her lip curled. 'As Madame wishes,' she said contemptuously. Of

course, some of our silver is not quadruple plate--the salt-cellars and

the cruets. I longed for her to reach them. Would you believe it,

Archie, she was not interested? Artists, she said, did not sanction the

appearance on table of salt-cellars or cruets. Food should be properly

seasoned before it left the kitchen. Salt-cellars and cruets belonged to

the barbarous table notions of uneducated English and Americans."

"Really, Letitia, I don't think we can--"

"Don't, please. It is all right now. I'm just telling you what _did_

happen, so that you can sympathize with me. I've been through it

all--alone. She then told me that while salt-cellars on a dinner table

were unnecessary, _bonbonnières_ filled with dainty candy were rigidly

called for. When she saw our _bonbonnières_, she and Leonie turned

quietly aside. You remember, Archie, they were theater souvenirs that

Aunt Julia gave us. One celebrated the one hundredth performance of _The

Masqueraders_, the other the fiftieth performance of _The Girl With the

Green Eyes_. I really felt quite abject. I--I--positively longed

for--for Mrs. Potzenheimer."

Poor Letitia! It was cruel. Gladly would I have spared her such chagrin.

"I don't think she meant to cause me pain," she went on. "She is merely

swell, and she seemed to wonder why we, who lacked these luxuries, had

engaged so expensive a culinary artist. Perhaps it was natural, but--I

really couldn't put myself in her place, though it must have been much

more comfortable than _mine_! I was glad when the silver inspection was

over. It wouldn't have been so bad if I had been alone with Madame, but

Leonie was there, like a hateful echo, and that made it so fearfully

trying. Next, I had to introduce her to the glass. Oh!"

I dreaded to hear about the glass. What would she think of my tumblers,

at ninety-six cents a dozen, bought to replace the wedding present that

Potzenheimer and Birdie had smashed between them!

"She asked to see the cut-glass," said Letitia, and this time there was

a wan smile on her lips. "I felt that she would indeed be

extraordinarily clever--in fact, _clairvoyante_--if she _could_ see the

cut-glass, for I couldn't. There was the decanter, that was cut-glass

only as to the stopper, and there was the salad-bowl, that is merely

near-cut-glass. When she saw the tumblers"--I winced--"I really thought

that she would throw them out of the window. 'Even _vin ordinaire_ would

be tasteless in them,' she said. 'I should like to see the best

tumblers, those that you use for dinner parties, and on state

occasions.'"

Letitia came to a standstill, as though she had at last reached the

meeting of the waters and was pausing before tackling the conflict.

"Just then, Archie, it occurred to me," she said slowly, "that

nothing--nothing could save us but a good, big, carefully conceived,

well-directed, artistic, whopping lie!"

"That's right!" I cried viciously. "I forgive you beforehand."

"Why should we be intimidated by a cook?" she asked oratorically. "I

asked myself that, and I could find no answer. Here we were about to

ruin ourselves to give this woman employment, being cross-examined by

her, as though we were prisoners at the bar. Moreover, it was a case of

two to one--she and Leonie against me! So I remained quiet for a few

moments, as I came to the conclusion that nobody could cope with all

this but a really beautiful, unabashed liar!"

"I can't bear to hear you talk like that, Letitia," I said, my

viciousness vanishing, as I realized the full force of Letitia's

irreligious resolution.

"I suddenly turned upon her," said Letitia, not heeding my

plaintiveness, "in a well-assumed fury. It was a condition that I found

no difficulty in simulating. 'I have listened to your impertinent

catechism for a long time, Madame,' I said, 'and now it's my turn. No

doubt you are surprised to find our appointments so meager. The fact is,

that as we don't know you, and as your references are all at the

antipodes, we have sent all our valuables to my aunt's country seat in

Tarrytown. The gold dinner set, that we use every day; the antique

silver table ornaments, the priceless salad-bowl, punch-bowl, and

tumblers; the wonderful knives, and the marvelous forks--all have gone

to Tarrytown, because we don't know you, there to stay until we do! You

see, we have been victimized by cooks, and though an artist, you are yet

a cook.'"

"Good!" I exclaimed triumphantly. "Bravo! You're a genius, Letitia. It

was a masterpiece."

"I must confess that after my brave words, I felt terribly frightened. I

experienced a sort of reaction that made me quite weak. I thought that

this would end all the roseate allurements of Madame de Lyrolle, and

that she would instantly quit. I felt positively harrowed, as it

occurred to me that we should have to begin over again, and that all our

efforts had gone for nothing. Would you believe it, Archie? She was as

meek as Moses, while Leonie absolutely fawned!"

"You clever girl!"

"As for instantly quitting, she seemed to fear that I should request her

to do so. 'I meant no impertinence,' she said quite humbly, 'and I think

you were right about the gold dishes. One can't be too careful.' The

gold dishes caught her, Archie. I felt almost sorry that I hadn't

studded them with a few diamonds. But one can't think of everything!

Aunt Julia's country seat, in Tarrytown, also made a hit. It seemed to

shed a reflected luster upon us. She asked several questions--oh, very

deferentially--about it, and I could see that we had gone up in her

estimation. As I am really anxious to keep her, Archie, and to be

comfortable for a little while, I thought it advisable to be vulgarly

ostentatious on the subject of Aunt Julia. I told her that my aunt was

fabulously wealthy, and hated the idea of our living so unpretentiously

in New York, in a small apartment. I put it all down to you, dear. I

cooked up a story of a _mésalliance_. I had married you against Aunt

Julia's wishes. You were poor and of rather common parentage, but I

loved you, I said."

"You needn't have lied _quite_ so artistically, Letitia," I said, rather

hurt.

"Isn't it quite true that I love you?" she asked lightly. "What an

ungrateful boy! So long as we have a good cook, what matters anything? I

began quite to enjoy my own romance. I felt like the Lady of Lyons, and

nearly told her about the horrid home to which you took me. I said that

the idea of a French cook was all mine. You had literally starved me,

because you have been brought up to think corned-beef and cabbage the

truest luxury."

"I think it _most_ unnecessary, Letitia," I said emphatically, "to make

me out a boor--to paint me in such colors to a cook. I should never have

believed--"

"I _had_ to put finishing touches," she declared. "Don't you see,

Archie, that it was important to follow up the gold plates with

something dramatic? What does it matter to you how she regards you? As

long as she is a good cook and behaves herself, surely you don't care

what she thinks of you. Moreover, though she _may_ look upon you as low,

she considers _me_ as a sort of Lady Clara Vere de Vere, most

aristocratic and well worth working for. Isn't that enough, Archie? Oh,

dear, I _wish_ I could induce you to be awfully coarse and disgusting,

before her! It would be such a help."

I rose, and walked away, thoroughly put out. "You are carrying the joke

too far!" I said sullenly.

"Oh, what a silly, sensitive boy it is!" she sighed. "And oh, how it

cares what even its cook thinks of it! I did all this for your sake,

Archie. You can imagine that I shouldn't select a low husband from

choice. I merely thought that it made the whole story hang together.

That's all. Of course, you can be yourself if you prefer it. Madame de

Lyrolle can always think that I am refining you, and that you are

gradually acquiring decency."

"I won't have it, Letitia," I interrupted furiously; "I don't see the

fun. I positively refuse to be belittled in my own house."

"Archie, you're almost too silly to kiss," she said, kissing me, "and I

don't think you deserve to be kissed, either. Here have I been cudgeling

my brains all day to devise means to retain a cook that will please you!

I have been bullied, and humiliated, and forced to lie, and falsify, and

perjure my soul. And, after I have been through it all, and emerged

safely on the other side, weak, but victorious, you sulk,

because--because--you don't see the fun! There _is_ no fun to see.

Nobody knows that better than I do. Come, sir, apologize at once, to

your lawful wife, or I shall immediately go and tell Madame that you are

of noble birth, and that I've been guying her--that you are really quite

obstreperously decent. Come, Archie, your apology, please."

I was slightly mollified, but--"Remember, Letitia," I insisted, "I

decline to be low."

She laughed tantalizingly. "You needn't be _too_ low," she said, "just a

little bit 'off' will do. Even if you only promise to tuck your

table-napkin under your chin and look greedy, I shall be satisfied.

Apologize to me, or off I trot to Madame--" and she rose to go.

"Come back, Letitia," I cried. "You are really intolerable. I apologize.

I apologize. You're a martyr, and I--I--"

"You're a respectable coal-heaver, dear," she said with malice and a

kiss.

CHAPTER XVIII

"And they lived happily ever after!" If the advent of Madame de Lyrolle

had only been the cue for that sweet, old-fashioned culmination--that

dulcet, though generally inartistic surcease from trouble! But, of

course, it was not. My readers will probably say that sheer dramatic

justice cries out for our speedy chastisement. Alas! Sheer dramatic

justice did not have to cry long. It pursued us relentlessly,

raveningly. We were innocent as Pompeii confidingly couched beside the

dread Vesuvius. This is not the place to say that we deserved it.

Surely, if Letitia and I have made one solitary friend during the

progress of this "sad, eventful history," he, or she, will refrain from

the luxurious "I told you so!"

I am not comparing Madame de Lyrolle to Vesuvius. No. I have never been

vicious, and I should scorn to do so rank an injustice to--Vesuvius!

There are methods of confounding, more subtile than that of a swift and

merciful eruption, methods that--er--"get there just the same." Alas!

Also, _misericordia_!

Thanks to Letitia's iridescent mendacity, our household effects were no

longer bones of contention. Madame gracefully condescended to live with

us and be our cook, and Leonie, equally gracefully, deigned to support

the culinary star. They both persisted in regarding Letitia as a darling

of fortune, marred. And I was the marrer. Leonie, who waited upon us,

paid me but scant attention and looked upon me as of no consequence. If

I addressed her, she replied as to one of her own kind; in fact, it

occurred to me that I was considered as a wickedly lucky mortal, who, by

some freak of fate, had been plucked from a butler's life to desecrate

that of the husband of an American heiress.

Madame asked for half her salary in advance. "We do not know you,"

Letitia had said to her. The inference was that she, on the other hand,

did not know Letitia. She was not taking any risks. Although our gold

dishes were at Tarrytown, Madame cautiously decided to assure herself

that some of the metal of which the dishes were made remained in New

York.

"Leonie is to do the marketing for Madame," said Letitia, on the morning

of the first day; "and I think that arrangement very satisfactory. I

have supplied her with money--more than she could possibly need, for I

did not want to seem 'close'--and at the end of the week we can go over

the accounts. It all seems delightful, doesn't it, dear?"

It did, indeed, and our first dinner confirmed our sensation of

pleasure. There was no deception. We began with a _purée mongole_, and

proceeded with frogs _à la poulette_. Dainty little lamb chops, _à la

maintenon_, roast grass plovers, a salad that was nearly poetic, and a

delicious sweet, known as cream _renversée_, made us feel almost too

nice to be at home. As for the after-dinner coffee, it was--sepia

ecstasy. Perhaps we _were_ fastidious; undoubtedly the dear folks who

say that they revel in plain food delicately prepared in pure water,

will sniff at this program. Still, I should not like to set it before

them with any hopes of finding remnants. Those dear folks who love plain

food! The grapes are so sour!

Leonie almost threw the food at me, but she served Letitia most

obsequiously. I was glad to see my little wife so well taken care of,

but I must admit that I made frantic efforts to redeem myself in the

handmaiden's sight. I tried to indicate, unostentatiously, education and

refinement. Weak I may be, but I hated to be regarded as a vulgarian.

The maid was a great restraint upon us. There she stood at the back of

Letitia's chair like a Nemesis. We had to restrict our conversation to

glittering generalities. She drank in our words, unbudgingly. Her eyes

were riveted on Letitia's plate, and my wife was plied with food

unceasingly. I am sorry to say that _I_ had to ask for some more of the

cream _renversée_. In fact, I had to ask twice, before I got it, and

then it was pushed rather rudely before me.

"It is like a dream," said Letitia purringly, when we were alone in the

drawing-room. "You see, nothing was over-stated in the advertisement. It

was all quite true."

"I only wish we had a theater on, or a party to go to, or something to

do," I said longingly. "It seems wicked to sit still and read, after a

dinner like that. We ought to move--stir--walk."

"Of course it _would_ be nicer," acquiesced Letitia. "That will come

later. I dare say that Madame will spur us to sociability."

We sat, and read, and digested. Letitia seemed drowsy; I felt heavy, and

disinclined for exertion. The richness of our repast was undeniable.

Letitia's remark that it was like a dream was not irrelevant, but the

dream was a nightmare. A more awe-inspiring night I have never spent. I

dreamed that Gerda Lyberg was holding me down and throttling me, while

Mrs. Potzenheimer and Birdie Miriam McCaffrey did a cachucha apiece on

my body. I awoke, dripping with perspiration, to find Letitia

agitatedly pacing up and down the bedroom.

"Nothing--nothing would induce me to go to sleep again, Archie," she

said excitedly. "Don't ask me to. I shall sit up for the rest of the

night. I dreamed that I went in the kitchen and found Madame de Lyrolle

boiling Olga Allallami's twins!"

Breakfast was so elaborate that it made me late for the office. There

were eggs, _à la bonne femme_, and porgies, _à la Horly_. Madame had

also prepared pigs' feet with _sauce Robert_, which we were obliged to

refuse. In fact, most of the breakfast was left. There was enough for at

least ten people, each with a healthy appetite. But, as Letitia said,

nothing would be wasted. These French cooks understood the science of

economy. It was one of their finest points.

The second dinner was an artistic continuation of the first. It

consisted of broiled trout, sweetbreads, and ptarmigan. Madame had made

pathetic inquiries about the wine-cellar, and Letitia, in humiliation,

had been forced to tell her that the wine-cellar was under the bed in

the spare-room. There we kept a few bottles of claret and a case of

champagne. We were not collectors. We knew very little about wines, and

did not belong to the class that discusses a vintage as though it were a

religion. Madame's artistic nature needed a stimulant, and Letitia told

her to take what she required. Owing to the location of the wine-cellar,

it called for no key.

Our appetite was not as keen on this second occasion, though we did fair

justice to the bill of fare. It was most ridiculously generous.

"It is a pity that we don't _know_ anybody," said Letitia

discontentedly; "it seems so greedy for us to sit down alone to such a

dinner. We should appreciate it so much more if we had company. Don't

you agree with me, dear? Positively, I feel gluttonous. I should enjoy

people sharing this with us. We might ask Aunt Julia, or Mrs. Archer,

or--"

"Tamworth?"

"Tamworth!" cried Letitia angrily. "No, Archie, that man shall never

enter this house again. If he came to dinner, Madame would surely have

triplets--or something horrible. Tamworth is unlucky. I look upon him as

responsible for Olga Allallami's--"

"Letitia!"

"You know what I mean. I associate him with our first knowledge of that

disaster, and--I shall hate him for ever. So don't suggest Tamworth.

No," she said querulously to Leonie, who was hovering over her with

cabinet pudding, _à la Sadi-Carnot_. "I can't really eat any sweets

to-night. I am sorry, because the pudding looks so nice. Perhaps it

will do for to-morrow."

"Madame is joking," Leonie murmured deferentially. "The pudding would be

impossible to-morrow."

Rather than sit still and read again, we went to a music-hall and walked

there! It was not the music-hall that we wanted, but the exertion of

getting to it. Anything rather than another series of nightmares.

"Madame is certainly a wonder," said Letitia, as we listened to a

blatant comedian holding up the stage. "It is marvelous how these French

women can make a little money go a long way. Just think of the perpetual

surprises she offers us, and of her knowledge of the market. While her

wages are quite ridiculously high--I wouldn't dare to discuss the matter

with Aunt Julia--you will find that in the long run we shall not be out

of pocket, owing to the French system of economy."

"The table is certainly most liberal," I remarked, "though nothing ever

seems to return. I noticed, dear, that at each meal we have something

new."

"That is her art," said Letitia delightedly. "Constant surprise--that is

the maxim of the French cook. I forgot to say, dear, that I gave her

twenty-five dollars for kitchen utensils. She wanted _sautoires_ and

_casseroles_, and dozens of things we have never had. Of course, this

expense can never occur again. She laughed at our old tins, and declared

that they would ruin anything."

The week passed uneventfully--unless we may consider our meals as

events. We lived on the "fat of the land" in bounteous doses, and

accepted it as our merited portion. Madame seemed to awaken from her

artistic lethargy, and once or twice her temperament surprised us. She

and Leonie waxed so lively in the kitchen that we were startled. Then

again, they seemed to quarrel rather vociferously. Letitia asserted that

she heard Madame exclaim on one occasion: "_Mon Dieu!_" but I could have

sworn that it was "Hully Jee!" It seemed absurd to mistake one for the

other. Probably I was wrong, though as Letitia was expecting French she

would be likely to imagine that she heard it. Why, however, should

Madame de Lyrolle of the Faubourg St. Germain, cry "Hully Jee"? Then we

realized that corks popped noisily and uncannily, and the inference

seemed unmistakable that either Leonie, or Madame, or both, had been

groping under the bed-wine-cellar. However, we did not mind that. The

artistic temperament yearns for an occasional vinous coaxing.

Letitia talked persistently of the joy of surprise. That surprise is,

nevertheless, not inevitably joyous, was a fact rather rudely borne in

upon us. The day of reckoning came, and the "fat of the land" stared us

starkly in the face. The evening that I usually dedicate to the signing

of the tradesmen's checks arrived. We had dined particularly well, the

main feature of the dinner having been squabs. We ate two apiece, and

four were removed intact--mute testimony to the French system of

economy.

"I can't think _how_ she does it!" Letitia had said, in ecstatic

appreciation. "We might really be millionaires."

We might be, but we were not. Yet, I had no premonition of evil as I

nonchalantly took up the butcher's bill. When I saw it, I uttered an

exclamation, and Letitia came running to my side. We looked at it, and

rubbed our eyes. We looked again, and rubbed them some more.

"It must be a mistake," Letitia said, paling.

The figures were fat and solid. The amount set forth would have

maintained an ordinary family of seven or eight, in comfort, for a

month. A horrid sensation of bankruptcy overwhelmed me. Then I looked at

the grocer's bill. It was four pages long, and the "demnition total"

quite appalling. I could scarcely believe the testimony of my own eyes.

The gentleman who supplied the fish appeared to be equally rapacious.

Was it all a hateful conspiracy, a fell plot to effect my ruin, or--or

was it French economy?

"We have eaten ourselves to the poorhouse, Letitia," I said, with a

sinking heart. "I--I can't pay these bills."

"Oh, they must be somebody else's bills," murmured Letitia, "they--they

can't be ours."

"They can't be anybody else's," I protested, in the calmness born of

despair. "Nobody could stand them. Rockefeller doesn't live in this

neighborhood. Carnegie is miles away. They _might_ be Carnegie's, if he

were a neighbor. As it is, my girl, I'm afraid they are ours. Yet how

_can_ they be?"

"Of course we have lived well," said Letitia reflectively, "we have

lived _very_ well. We can't even put it down to waste, because French

people never waste."

"And yet"--I tried to fathom the mystery--"there has always been three

times as much as we could eat. The other night, we had six ptarmigans

before us, and we ate one apiece. The inference is, Letitia, either that

Madame and Leonie have appetites like cart-horses, or that they throw

the things away."

"A French cook throws nothing away," persisted Letitia almost defiantly.

"That I know."

"You had better ask Madame about it," I said doggedly. "Perhaps she can

explain."

"That is surely your privilege, Archie. You pay the bills; I don't."

"Since you have told her that I am just a poor hanger-on, and that you

are the money end of the concern, the affair this time, my dear Letitia,

is yours."

At present, I flattered myself I had scored one. Letitia had painted her

position so luminously, and had etched me in in such somber tints, that

I felt master of the situation. Perhaps it was cowardly, but as I had

the name I might as well have the game. Although I had said little about

the contemptuous treatment I had received from Leonie during the past

week, I had felt it acutely. Like the Spartan boy, I had suffered in

silence. Being American, and not even a little bit Spartan, this had

been difficult.

Letitia was weeping silently, and I felt like a double-distilled brute.

"I hate to talk to an artist in that way," she said sorrowfully. "Her

temperament will be shocked. You can well imagine, Archie, that such a

woman will simply despise us."

"But where's the French system of economy?" I asked wildly. "Where's the

_pot au feu_ with the delicious soup, and the daintily served meat? You

said that rats would starve on the refuse from a French kitchen. Why,

according to these bills, the refuse from ours would have fattened the

entire menagerie at Central Park and the Bronx, including the elephants,

tigers and bears."

"Now you're exaggerating," asserted Letitia plaintively; "you're making

things out worse than they are. You're--"

I could not afford to argue. Facts stared me in the face. I had a small

balance at the bank, which I should over-draw if I made out checks for

these bills. The savings I had accumulated were drawing interest in the

growing but by no means adult publishing house of Tamworth and Fairfax.

I could borrow from Tamworth, of course, this week, but next week loomed

up hideously as a sheer impossibility. Something must be done at once.

I rang the bell. "We must talk it over with Madame," I said desperately.

The kitchen, some distance away from the drawing-room, seemed strangely

close. We could hear Madame and Leonie laughing weirdly, and though we

both of us liked merry moods, this particular brand of mirth grated.

There was a pause after my ring. Then Leonie appeared, wiping her mouth,

and I told her that I wished to see her aunt.

"I--I think--she's gone to bed," the maid remarked, after a reluctant

moment.

"Why, I just heard her laughing," said Letitia, surprised. "Send her in

at once, Leonie." And as the maid departed, Letitia added: "She may be

unprepared for the drawing-room."

This was undoubtedly true. Madame came in a moment later, also wiping

her mouth, and with her face wreathed in smiles. Her hair was disheveled

and her dress disordered. She might have been rolling on the floor. Her

look was so strange, her gait so unsteady, that Letitia instinctively

clutched my arm. Thereupon, Madame de Lyrolle fell promptly over the

tiger-head, and--unlike many who had suffered a similar fate--she lay

there, laughing hilariously.

"And me a lady, too!" she exclaimed, pealing with mirth.

Outside the room stood Leonie, apparently deeply agitated. As she saw

her star prone on the best rug, and heard the bacchanalian laughter

stertorously proceeding from her lips, she entered hastily and

approached her relative. Letitia still held my arm in a grip, and my own

emotions were--well, mixed.

"Oh, come away, Aunt Delia," pleaded Leonie; "come away. She's not

feeling good to-night"--turning to Letitia--"she's had toothache, and

swallowed some of the whisky that she took to ease the pain. It must

have gone to her head. Oh, Aunt Delia, get up. That ain't no position

for a lady."

Leonie burst into tears. The position was too much for her, especially

as Aunt Delia gave unmistakable indications of a fondness for red

garters with saucy bows on them!

"Why do you call her Aunt Delia?" asked Letitia sternly, evidently in

the belief that the Faubourg St. Germain had no dealings with Delias.

"Because it's her name," replied Leonie sullenly. "That's what I call

her. She was Delia O'Shaughnessy before she married that blooming old

French chef on the French ocean steamer--blessed if I don't forget its

name. She's always Aunt Delia O'Shaughnessy to me."

Letitia covered her face with her hands. Madame O'Shaughnessy de Lyrolle

began to kick until the bows on her garters fluttered. Still she

laughed, loudly, shockingly, unendingly.

"Was she ever in France?" I asked, mortally pained.

"Not on your tintype!" declared the maid in disgraceful colloquialism,

as she advanced to the tiger-head and tried to raise Aunt Delia's two

hundred pounds. "New York's good enough for Aunt Delia; ain't it,

Auntie? She in France! And with that husband! Nobody would want to go to

a country that turned out specimens like that. But he taught Aunt Delia

how to cook--coached her for years--and don't you forget it. She got

that much out of him."

"Now I understand her extravagance," cried Letitia, as though suddenly

enlightened. "Now I see it all. He was a cook on some ocean greyhound,

and she--"

"Extravagant!" cried Leonie insolently; "I like that. Aunt Delia has

cooked for the best people in this country. She has never _yet_ hired

herself out to cheap skates. Say, Aunt Delia"--frantically endeavoring

to pierce that lady's dulled comprehension--"they're complaining. We're

extravagant. They want good things, but they hate to pay for 'em. They

eat like pigs, and then kick at the bills."

"Come away, Letitia," I said nervously. "You go to your room, and I'll

see to this."

"I will not leave you, Archie," she declared, though she was trembling;

"I--I'm not afraid."

"Won't either of you help me up with me aunt?" Leonie asked, her anger

rising and an unsteadiness of gait, similar to that of the good lady on

the tiger-head, manifesting itself. "Call yourselves human beings?

Standing there and letting a lady suffer like this! You and your gold

plates!" (tugging at Aunt Delia). "You and your rich Tarrytown aunt!"

(pulling down Aunt Delia's refractory dress). "I don't believe it. I

don't believe your stories. We've got our money, anyway, and you can

fish--fish--fish!"

With each "fish" Aunt Delia raised her limbs, and her dutiful niece

pressed them discreetly down. Madame O'Lyrolle de Shaughnessy still

continued her ebullition of laughter. She was deaf to her niece's

entreaties. She had certainly come to stay, and the tiger-head appeared

to suit her artistic tastes.

"You will have to call in a policeman, Archie," said Letitia, in a low

voice.

Whether it was the innate sympathy of anything O'Shaughnessy for New

York's finest, or whether Letitia's words acted as a stimulant to the

lady's artistic temperament, we shall never know, but at the mere

utterance of the word "policeman" Aunt Delia decided to quit her

recumbent position, and with a look of offended dignity, and Leonie's

assistance, she rose to her feet.

"I'd like to see the po-lees-man who'd touch me," she said in deep

contralto tones, with a lost chord in them. "Me for me bedstead, Leonie,

old gal. Come, give us a hand." Then, with a solemnity that some people

might consider humorous, she added, turning to Letitia: "Leonie's a

good girl, and a comfort--hic--to her old aunt. Sorry to trouble you.

Don't mention it. It's a pleasure. As my husband used to say--hang

him!--'_Pas de quoi. A votre service._' Well, we'll go now, and thank

you. So long, for a little while!"

Leonie, with an expression of spite on her face that was almost

withering, led away the Faubourg St. Germain's caterer. The fumes of

wine filled the room and I threw open the windows, heaving a sigh of

enjoyment as the fresh air reached us. Letitia's bravery appealed to me,

and I complimented her upon her plucky behavior. The reaction had now

set in and she was shivering apprehensively.

"I don't think I can stand any more of this, Archie," she said weakly.

"I--I've reached the limit. This scene was too degrading--too

abject--too incredibly vulgar!"

"They must leave the house in the morning!"

"In the morning!" she cried, aghast. "Why not now? I shouldn't feel safe

sleeping with them in the house. They might murder us, or each other."

"They won't murder us, dear," I said soothingly, "and if they choose to

murder each other--"

"The scandal would be too horrible. Archie, let us implore them to go

now. Let us offer them money to leave at once."

"Money!" I said bitterly. "I'm not made of it, my girl. I certainly

can't pay them to get out after having given them so much to come in.

They won't hurt us, you silly child. They are just a trifle

intoxicated."

"A _trifle_ intoxicated! How can you say such a thing? Oh, those red

garters--those terrible red garters--those bows--will be for ever in my

mind. I can never--never--look a red garter in the face again. A trifle

intoxicated! Why, it is in conditions like this that the worst crimes

are committed. Let us take the midnight train to Tarrytown."

"And leave them here to complete our ruin! No, Letitia. You have been a

brave girl throughout this episode. Just be brave for a bit longer.

To-morrow we shall see things differently. These women will sleep

quietly, and so shall we."

"I shan't. I couldn't to save my life. I should see red garters and

those awful odious legs. I should hear that laughter. I can't forget it.

O'Shaughnessy! Just think of it--the very name that I loathe, too. Aunt

Delia! Isn't it wicked, Archie? Isn't it cruel? Ha! ha! ha! ha! Oh, I

can't stand it. Ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Letitia was in hysterics before I realized it. In alarm, I ran to the

dining-room and mixed her a glass of bromo-seltzer, and then ran back

and stood over her until she had drunk it. As she grew calmer and an

ominous repose took the place of the hysteria, I implored her to try and

forget everything until the morning, when these events would seem less

awe-inspiring. The riot in the kitchen had ceased. A sound of deep

contralto snoring, accompanied by similar music in a tone more treble,

was all that we heard. Aunt Delia was evidently sleeping the sleep of

the Faubourg St. Germain, while Leonie was still supporting her star.

Nevertheless, I locked our door, and Letitia pushed the bureau against

it.

CHAPTER XIX

Our enthusiasm for the alleged joys of an alleged New York home was now

decidedly on the wane, and we were face to face with the problem that

New Yorkers are strenuously trying to solve: how to live in apparent

decency without one. We did not dare, just at present, to do more than

reflect upon the intricacies of the enigma. We were, however,

disillusioned. The old order of things, to which we still clung, had

gone out of fashion, and we began to realize it.

Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle (_née_ O'Shaughnessy) and her niece left us

next day, with the reluctant aid of the police. Their awakening was not

that repentant return to the normal condition that we had confidently

expected. Madame's temperament was evidently not addicted to remorse.

She was inclined to be violent in the morning, and we were roused by the

noise of a hand-to-hand conflict between our hired ladies, in which the

finger-nails of each seemed to play leading rôles. So I was obliged to

telephone for a policeman, who (being named Doherty) seemed a trifle

uncertain whether he had been called in to remove Letitia and myself or

the Irish Gauls. Apparently he thought that we deserved his attention

more picturesquely than they did. A sort of masonic sympathy established

itself between Mr. Doherty and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. Letitia and I felt

almost _de trop_--as though we were spoiling sport or playing

gooseberry. I managed to intimate to Mr. Doherty, however, that though

American, I was still master in my own house. In due course, the

policeman and the ladies left. In spite of the distasteful memory of

Monsieur Hyacinthe de Lyrolle, I fancy that the _chère_ Madame was not

utterly disgusted with the sex to which he belonged.

The ensuing week was principally devoted to unexpected payments for

unexpected things debited to my account by Madame Hyacinthe. Some

philosophic people declare that it is a pleasure to pay for what one has

had and enjoyed. That may be true. I will not argue the question. I

assert, however, that it is difficult to find pleasure in paying for

what one has never had, and that somebody else has enjoyed. An adjacent

ice-cream parlor sent me in a large bill for ice-cream sodas that had

been served in my apartment, at the rate of two or three times a day,

during the sojourn of the French ladies. A drug store plied me with an

account for various items, the advantages of which we had never reaped.

For ten days I was busy settling up. It was the "joy of surprise" with a

vengeance. Madame had thoughtlessly omitted to clothe herself at my

expense. A few tailor-made gowns and ruffled silk petticoats would have

added to the joyous revelations.

"When I read," said Letitia, "of the silly New York women who don't know

what a home means, and who offer prizes to servants who keep their

places, my blood boils. Prizes to servants who keep their places! The

prizes should go to the poor housekeepers who are able to overcome their

sense of repugnance sufficiently to admit these creatures into their

houses, and keep them there."

"The women who talk most about the servant question, my dear," I said

sententiously, "are the over-dressed, underfed matrons you see at the

lobster palaces, who live on one meal a day, which they take at a

restaurant, and spend their mornings in curl-papers and wrappers."

"What I can't understand," resumed Letitia reflectively, "is the total

disappearance of what we read about as the dignity of labor. Surely,

Archie, it has a dignity. Some people must work for the benefit of

others. If everybody had to dust, and sweep, and sew, and cook for

herself, what would become of all the graces of life, of literature,

art, music? I don't see anything so disgraceful in housework. We can't

all be equal, can we--except in theory? Why, when you see two people

together for just five minutes, you can note the superiority of the one,

and the inferiority of the other."

I had no desire to be dragged into an economic discussion. My mind was

not in a condition serene enough to grapple with it. I had just paid out

nearly eleven dollars to the ice-cream and candy purveyor who had

surreptitiously cooled Madame de Lyrolle's "innards."

"I suppose," continued Letitia, "that the reason New York women look so

much nicer than they are is that the poor things have no time to do

anything for their own mental refinement. They must eat like paupers,

live like laborers' wives, and rely for their only pleasure upon clothes

and a nocturnal restaurant. Then they slink back to their joyless 'home'

and go to a bed that they have, themselves, made."

"Poor souls!" I sighed.

"You can't blame them for lack of conversational power," said Letitia,

"or for want of internal resources. They can't even have children in

comfort. Mrs. Archer told me that when she was first married she was so

busy, and so uncomfortable, and so pressed for room, and always without

a cook, that she literally had no time to have children. She wanted a

little boy, but put off having him until she got a good cook. And as she

never obtained the good cook, she felt that she had no right to make a

poor little boy unhappy."

"Mrs. Archer talks nonsense," I remarked rather severely (I felt it my

duty to be severe on this occasion).

"I don't see it at all. The comforts of home are even more necessary in

case of children. These wretched creatures who masquerade as servants

and who detest you simply because you employ them--and for no other

reason--are menaces to safety. Imagine children around with the

inebriated, incompetent drudges we have had--"

Poor Letitia was talking "race suicide" with a vengeance, and I was not

inclined to pursue the subject. Cook as an exterminator of the human

species seemed too glittering a novelty. Yet there was much common sense

in what my level-headed little wife said.

"Cook is a tragedy, my girl," I admitted. "The world has had servants

for centuries, and the world has progressed. Now that the end of the old

régime is at hand and the cook has turned, I can't fancy that the world

will be routed. Something new will be discovered, and cook can hang

herself. The world must fight its own battles. It is up to the world,

and you and I are just atoms."

"Call yourself an atom, if you like, Archie," she said, quite hurt, "but

leave me out of it. I hate always being looked upon as an atom and I

can't endure scientists. Even if we _are_ very petty and unimportant and

mere cogs in the wheel, we don't realize it. And if we did realize it,

then we should just submit quietly to be ground down and pulverized. I

won't be pulverized just yet. And all on account of cook, too!"

But there was no doubt at all about it. Our enthusiasm was waning, and

though we still decided to play the farce for a time longer, our effort

was half-hearted. We realized the gaunt impossibility of the thing. We

studied the life that was lived around us--the bleak, inhospitable holes

that apparently refined people called home; nooks with chairs and tables

in them, ornate, and decorated, but devoid of the subtile quality known

as atmosphere; crannies where the married he and she hid their

discomforts, and turned a brave front to the world; cold and dismal

recesses where the casual visitor was offered a glass of ice-water, and

where old-fashioned hospitality was as dead as a doornail; houses, in

which, except on state occasions and amid sickening ceremony, bread was

never broken, and conviviality unknown; barren kennels, unkempt cages,

stark nests, cheerless dormitories! Home, in New York, had gone to the

dogs, impelled thither by cook!

"Last week," said Letitia, "Mrs. Archer gave a reception. She hired two

colored girls and one man for the occasion. There was a whole line of

carriages in the street. It was a very nice affair. Mrs. Archer received

her guests in a lovely blue silk dress. There were sandwiches tied up

with ribbons, delicious _paté de foie gras_, _bouillon en tasse_, ices,

champagne, and all the rest of it. There was music and altogether a most

pleasing time. We all enjoyed it immensely. Two days later I dropped

into Mrs. Archer's in the afternoon. I was dead tired--almost fainting

for a cup of tea. I found her in a dirty cotton wrapper, dusting the

pictures, and looking odious. I hinted for tea, but it was no good. She

had no servant. At last, in desperation, I asked for a sip of water, and

she ran and brought it for me--in a teacup!"

"A cup of tea is certainly not too much to expect," I murmured

meditatively.

"The poorest artisan's wife, with seventeen children, and three rooms,

could afford a cup of tea," declared Letitia, in pained tones; "but a

cup of tea suggests home, you know. Hospitality suggests home. People

here have lost the knack of it. These bedizened Jezebels of the

intelligence offices have smashed the idea to pieces. One has to set a

day for the visitor, and prepare for it two weeks beforehand."

"It must be true," I declared. "People don't drop in to dinner

nowadays."

"They can't, because the host and the hostess drop out--to dinner."

It seemed impossible to realize that not so very long ago both Letitia

and I had scoffed at the mere idea of the existence of such a thing as

the servant question. We had disdained to admit it. We had shut our

eyes, and cook had knocked us in the face. We were now as gods knowing

good and evil, with more of the latter than the former. Our skittish

lives were embittered. The beginning of the end had set in, and the

prelude was being played.

Yet we frivoled with a cook or two more. Nobody could possibly accuse us

of cowardice. Some may say that we were silly (and to these I simply

remark: prove it); but cowardly, we were not. We distinctly warded off

the time of surrender. We fought to the last finish, until our

cook-mangled bodies gave out in sheer inability to cope with the

enigma.

We secured the aid of an ancient lady, who had first breathed the breath

of life in Ireland--a country, by-the-by, that talks eloquently of home

rule, and yet kindly sends all its cooks over here. However, Ireland's

bitterest foes could wish it no worse fate than the sort of home rule

that its own cook-ladies administer.

Mrs. O'Toole was sixty years old. She had been a cook, she informed us,

for thirty-five years. That time she had apparently devoted to the art

of learning how to learn nothing. All she could do was to stew prunes.

It had taken her thirty-five years to acquire the knack. I could have

stewed the universe in less time. She was most amiable, but had never

heard of the most ordinary dishes that the most ordinary people affect.

Like Mistress Anna Carter, she had infinite belief in the delicatessen

curse--in the cooked-up rubbish that unfortunates throw down their

luckless throats--in the instinct that prompts savages to eat earth.

We called in Aunt Julia (poor Aunt Julia! I don't hate her nearly as

much now!), in the hope that she might be able to teach Mrs. O'Toole a

few rudimentary things, and as cook seemed so affable, we reasoned that

she would probably be very glad to learn. But, bless your heart, Mrs.

O'Toole had a soul above the sordid question of acquiring culinary

knowledge. Aunt Julia cooked and Mrs. O'Toole let her cook!

"If you will just watch me, Mrs. O'Toole," said Aunt Julia politely,

"I'm sure you will be able to make this dish to-morrow."

The cook-lady laughed in sheer light-heartedness. "Sure, mum," she said,

"I've been thirty-five years without knowing how to make it, and I'm

still alive. I've buried a husband and seven children, and have had a

good time without all them new-fangled notions."

It was hopeless. Mrs. O'Toole hummed _The Wearing o' the Green_ for the

sake of her nationality, and took out her knitting. She was most

good-tempered and pleasant about it, but she had no yearning to learn

how to cook. Yet she must have had a ferociously arduous time in

learning how _not_ to cook. She was charmingly familiar with us both--a

real good soul with a rooted objection to the kitchen.

"Yet some of these silly Guilds," said Letitia, "announce that they are

going to teach women how to cook. How can they teach women who won't

learn? My opinion is that the Guilds would have much quicker pupils if

they promised to teach them how to loop the loop."

Mrs. O'Toole was so jovial that I could almost see her looping the loop

at Coney Island, and hear her emitting shrieks of Hibernian jollity as

she hung head downward in that delightful institution. But I could

not--and did not--see her cooking a dinner and laying a table.

She went with as much good humor as she came. We kept her in our midst

for a month, not because we wanted her for culinary purposes, but

because she seemed able to sit in the kitchen, while we went out to

dinner. She was both sober and honest, and had probably generally spent

an innocuous month in every place. During a service of thirty-five years

she must have graced four hundred and twenty places. Admitting, at a low

average, three people to each household, she had therefore catered to

twelve hundred and sixty appetites! It was an inspiring thought.

Mrs. O'Toole's successor was an English lassie. At another time, our

spirits would have risen at the prospect of an Albionite--a disciple of

a country where servants still exist to some extent. As it was, we were

so thoroughly discouraged that we had no illusions--which was just as

well, as it spared us the annoyance of having them shattered. Katie

Smith had been in the country but three days, but the rapid pace at

which she had Americanized was the subtlest sort of compliment to New

York City.

There was very little that was typically English about her, save a

picturesque h-lessness. In return for lost h's she had nothing to offer.

Of course, the lack of h's would not have bothered us in the least. Miss

Smith was very frank. She had gone wrong "at 'ome," and had been shipped

here by her relatives. It was assumed that here she would "go right." We

had no objections whatever to her past. Little cared we, in our

desperation, for such trivialities as a past. We asked no questions, and

were not curious as to her crime. Any old crime would suit us--as long

as the criminal herself would let us live in peace.

Miss Smith told us--still archly candid--that she had decided to become

a cook, because, immediately on landing, she had been told that

Americans were in such dire straits for cooks.

"And have you ever been a cook?" asked Letitia kindly.

"Oh, never," she replied indignantly, in a perish-the-thought tone, "I

was a factory lady in the pen establishment of Messrs. M. Myers and Son,

of Birmingham. Me a cook! Not I. But, of course, in this country, I

don't think I shall mind it, as the wages are high."

Months ago, we should have politely indicated the exact location of the

door. Now, we were battered and pulpy, and remonstrance seemed absurd.

Again we sent for Aunt Julia (on second consideration, I really like

Aunt Julia!) and introduced her to the latest specimen of the genus

"clean slate."

My heart, at first, "kind of" went out to Katie Smith, because she had

made pens, which are so necessary to me. But Letitia remarked, rather

brusquely, that pens are not puddings, and that although they were _my_

bread-and-butter, she had no desire to eat them with hers. I am bound to

say that Letitia's moods were becoming most variable. They were as

unreliable as April weather. I suppose that the constant surprise was

rather wearing on the poor girl.

Miss Smith's career was so short that I might almost call it

instantaneous. After having cooked us one alleged dinner, which tasted

very much as pens _au gratin_ might possibly taste, she asked Letitia if

she might go into the garden, to get the air.

Letitia thought that she was joking. The garden! Perhaps, like the

wine-cellar, it was under the bed in the spare room. Letitia laughed,

but Miss Smith was serious.

"I couldn't stay in no place where there wasn't no garding," she said.

"My! Ain't you cramped up for room, with a kitchen like a blooming

cubby-'ole, and all the places so 'ot that one can't breathe. And no

garding! What do you do to get the air?"

"You can put on your things and go for a walk, Katie," said Letitia

good-naturedly. "Some of the girls in the house get the air, as you call

it, on the roof. Would you like to go up on the roof?"

Miss Smith was much amused. "Crikey!" she cried, "me on the roof! No,

thank you, mum. I should get giddy, and that wouldn't do. I'm sorry,

Mrs. Fairfax, but I must 'ave a garding, for the sake of me 'ealth.

There must be a place where I can stroll of an evening."

So Albion's little lassie left us, and we wired to poor Aunt Julia to

tell her that she need not bother to come as there was nothing to come

for. We were not more dejected than usual, for we had lost hope, and had

ceased to garner expectations.

"Perhaps if I asked our landlord to knock down a few of his houses and

plant a garden, we might induce Katie to stay," I suggested sardonically

to Letitia. "He owns three or four houses on this block. A very nice

garden could be made. I wonder if she would like an old rose garden or

if she would be satisfied with any old garden? He might even put in an

orchard for her."

Letitia sighed. "Yes, dear," she said. "I feel I ought to laugh at your

humor, but you'll forgive me, Archie, won't you, if I fail to discover

its value? Katie was really not a bad sort, and it is annoying to think

that just because we hadn't a garden--"

"But she couldn't cook, my girl!"

"Of course she couldn't _cook_. You expect too much, Archie. If she had

known how to cook she wouldn't have applied for the position. But she

knew how to open the front door, and yesterday, when I asked her to

bring me a glass of water, she was able to draw it for me. That, it

seems to me, is quite an accomplishment for a New York domestic."

One other attempt we made to stem the tide. Mrs. Archer, who sympathized

sincerely with our plight and had grown accustomed to her own, which was

similar, had heard of a nice fat orphan from an orphan asylum, who had

taken the notion to "live out." (The expression "taking the notion"

belongs exclusively to the New York hired lady. It symbolizes her state

of mind as new ideas dawn upon it.) So we let in the nice fat orphan,

and put her in the kitchen. She was a simple, unsophisticated thing, who

had been rigidly educated in an excellent Roman Catholic institution, in

blissful ignorance of the world in which she was expected to earn her

living later.

She burst out sobbing when she saw the lonely kitchen, and refused to be

comforted. She had always had young girls around her, she said, and had

never been separated from orphans. Letitia told her that she was an

orphan, and--as an extra inducement--that I was an orphan. The girl

looked at her in blank incredulity and with an expression of dismay. Her

idea of orphans was a crowd of little girls in uniform, marching around,

two by two. She could not do without this. She had never done without

it. She cried so bitterly, that Letitia was touched.

"Poor thing!" she said gently, as she told the story to me, "I only wish

we knew some nice young orphans, Archie, to sit in the kitchen with her.

But, of course, we don't. It really grieves me."

Letitia irritated me. How _could_ she be gentle, and kind, and tender,

confronted with all these wretched subterfuges and false pretenses?

"I might go out and kill a few gentlemen and ladies," I suggested

savagely; "and ask their orphans to play with this girl. It is the only

way out of the difficulty. Really, Letitia, you are getting quite

childish. I have no patience--"

"That is quite true, dear. You certainly have no patience. This girl is

most respectable. She is too young to drink, too religious to steal,

too friendless to roam around--"

"Too idiotic to be useful--"

"In time, she might be useful," Letitia asserted, though with doubt in

her voice. "She is an innocent little thing and I feel sorry for her. I

can't help it; I do. She is so helpless! She doesn't even know her

surname. She calls herself Rachel, pure and simple. She is not sure how

old she is. I hate to let her go, Archie."

"You needn't mind it in the least," I said; "she can walk right out of

this house and get any position she wants. She can call herself a

first-class cook and people will be glad to get her. When she sees that

there are no orphans attached to the ordinary kitchen, she will accustom

herself to the idea. You need have no scruples, Letitia. It is the poor

devils of men who deserve sympathy in New York. If a woman suffers, it

is because she is lazy and worthless."

"How hard-hearted you are!"

"No, I'm not. Never will I give a cent in charity to any begging woman.

It is the men who have a hard time in this city. They can have any help

that I am able to give them. But to the women I say merely: Learn how to

do housework. Take a lesson or two in cooking. Study the home, and you

can get good, comfortable positions as long as you want them! Any woman,

begging in the New York streets, while thousands of unfortunate people

clamor to give them good wages, should be arrested as a useless

encumbrance. Those are my sentiments."

"I dare say you are right, Archie," said Letitia, evidently impressed by

my fiery eloquence, which bubbled forth, almost unpunctuated. "It seems

to me that most of these women would sooner roam the streets in rags,

and herd together in tenement houses like cattle, than do the work for

which they should be fitted. It is wonderful."

"Not wonderful," I said, "but deplorable. It is the spirit of

independence gone wrong--turned against itself--pushed in a painful

direction, like an ingrowing toe-nail. A system of education that

educates in the letter and not in the spirit, is responsible. The

mistaken idea of universal equality is the root of the evil. Shakespeare

was no better than the man who blacked his boots; Goethe no bit superior

to the women who cooked his hash. Delicate truths like this are

instilled into the minds of the people. Silly socialistic men and women

who have no use for either the comforts or refinements of life, are the

criminals. Idle people who want to turn epigrams find this a fertile

theme. Why, Letitia, do you remember when we went to see _Candida_ the

other night, we noticed that even a man like Bernard Shaw was not averse

from making one of his characters inveigh against the crime of keeping

servants? It was Morell, I think, who was indignant that the young

poet's father kept so many servants. 'Anyhow, when there's anything

coarse-grained to be done,' he said, 'you ring the bell, and throw it on

to somebody else. That's one of the great facts in your existence.' A

man like Shaw, who lives in refinement, with a delightful home,

neat-handed servants, a charming wife, and all the rest of it, can not

resist the opportunity to hammer at a scheme that he must know is

absolutely necessary."

"You will talk yourself hoarse, dear," said Letitia. "Of course, Archie,

it is a showy theme. People who use it can always be sure of making a

hit with the gallery. Teaching equality is delightful entertainment for

those who could never possibly be equal--who are literally born unequal.

Why, Archie, some people, through no fault of their own, are born

idiots. How could they possibly be equal to those who were not so born?"

"In the meantime," I continued, "those who are born idiots avenge

themselves on society by going out as cooks. It is their little scheme

for getting even with the world. This has given cooks a bad name. Nobody

cares to be in the same class as the idiot."

"I'm only sorry," murmured poor Letitia, "that I learned Latin instead

of cooking."

"But my girl," I said soothingly, "I did not intend to marry a cook, and

I would not have you changed in one single particular."

She kissed me. "Just the same," she went on, "I'm sorry. It is an art.

There are the arts of Cooking, and Higher Cooking, and Scientific

Cooking, that are gastronomies worthy of study. I realize that, now it

is too late. Willingly would I substitute Brillat-Savarin for Ovid, if I

only could! It is unfortunate."

"My dear," I said, and I drew her to my knee to break the news as easily

as possible, "we have come to the end of our tether. As the children say

when they have finished playing, we must 'bosh up.' We must make the

best of a bad job, and, living in New York, do as New Yorkers do. In

fact, our housekeeping must end."

"Oh, Archie!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears; "do you--do you

really mean it?"

I bowed my head. It was inevitable.

CHAPTER XX

Letitia sat on an empty barrel in the carpetless drawing-room; there was

desolation in her heart, chaos in mine; the tragedy of finality in the

atmosphere. Strange men in linen overalls, ponderous boots, and crackly

voices, creaked around, blithely disrespectful and lugubriously

light-hearted. They whistled. One was named Jim; a second, Sam; a third,

Joe. They had no surnames and needed none. They had come to put our poor

little hollow mockery of a home into the New York receiving vault of all

domestic remains known as the "storage warehouse."

Sometimes they sang, as their work of devastation proceeded. They were

merry souls. Occasionally they suggested the flowing bowl as an

incentive to higher effort. Every day they took the corpses of homes

that had succumbed to the "storage warehouse," and their sentiment was

dead. Homes died so quickly in New York; their hold upon life was so

frail; their assertive powers so numbed; their prospects of longevity so

pitifully small!

If New York furniture could think, its reflections would busy

themselves with that time of passive pension and surcease from dusting,

in the storage warehouse! If tables and chairs could speak, what would

they not say of a fate that nipped them in their very bud and shipped

them off, in arrested development, to a long vacation?

Letitia sat on the empty barrel, a veritable picture of woe. Her dress

was bedraggled and her hair unkempt. She had a smut on the end of her

nose and it did not worry her. It was one of those smuts that it was

quite impossible to overlook--large, black, and deep, intimating that it

would spread, if touched. Her eyes were fixed upon Jim, and Sam, and

Joe. She saw them through the dust, darkly. "Patience on a monument,"

could have taught my poor Letitia many useful things!

"_If_ you please, mum," said Jim, pausing in a cheery rendition of

_Laughing Water_ to confront Letitia; "I'll just start packing the china

in that barrel, if you'll kindly get down. Sorry to disturb you, mum,

but we'll try and get it done before we go to lunch."

Lunch! Letitia shuddered, but she jumped from the barrel.

Sympathetically, I appreciated her feelings. The word lunch sounded so

dismally cruel. These men could eat horrid, stout, meat sandwiches and

drink stupefying beer in the very midst of preparing us for the storage

warehouse! This lunch seemed more of an outrage upon respectable

sentiment than did the medical man's snack between the acts of a

_post-mortem_ examination.

Letitia was dry-eyed until they took up the tiger-head, over which we

had fallen at so many merry, unexpected moments, and began to fold it

up. Then she burst into tears and ran into the dining-room, where I

followed her, slowly, and mournfully.

"Don't, Letitia," I said, feeling ridiculously oppressed. "Why should we

mind? New Yorkers don't think anything of all this. They rather like it.

They look upon it as emancipation from care and worry. Don't cry, my

girl. See, let me wipe that smut from your nose."

"No, you s-shan't," she sobbed, warding me off. "If I ch-choose to be

s-smutty, I--I w-will be s-smutty."

I sat down and beat a nervous tattoo on the last table that had the last

cloth upon it. The last cruet, containing the last vinegar, and the last

mustard stood on this last table that had the last cloth upon it. I

allowed Letitia to have her cry out. When she had finished and had dried

her eyes, the smut had expanded to such an extent that portions of it

were smeared upon her cheeks, chin, and lips. Under the circumstances,

there was bathos amid the poor girl's pathos!

"I can't realize it, Archie," she said funereally, when her equanimity

was restored. "I can't grasp the fact that this is really the end, and

that to-night--to-night, my poor boy--we shall be lodged in a family

hotel, so-called, I suppose, because none of the guests have families

and the proprietor wouldn't take them in if they had!"

"I dare say, dear, we shall be very comfortable."

"Parlor and bedroom elegantly furnished; bath; generous _cuisine_; fine

music; view of Central Park and Hudson River! I have learned it all by

heart. Nothing of it belongs to us, Archie. It is the sort of thing one

looks at for two weeks in Paris, or Rome, or Berlin, but to regard it as

permanent is too dreadful. And the starchy, artificial women strutting

into the dining-room, wearing all the clothes they can get on to their

backs, with their cheerless husbands in tow, eating the dinners that

they haven't ordered and grumbling about them; then, trotting away from

the dining-room, back to their silent rooms, there to wait until it is

bedtime."

"You can't possibly know, Letitia," I said, "as you've never lived in

one of these places. You are morbid, and a bit unreasonable."

"Oh, I've met people who _have_ lived in them," she retorted, "and who

have liked it. They had nothing to worry about and nothing even to think

about--except how to kill time. A friend of Mrs. Archer's told me that

the favorite topic of conversation was the food. Was the meat of the

best quality? Were the vegetables fresh or canned? Was the table as

bountiful this season as last? Most of the people, it seems, grow tired

of the food and go to other restaurants in despair."

She paused, racking her brain for more torments and apparently taking a

keen pleasure in torturing herself. Yet we both knew that it was

inevitable. We had discussed the matter into shreds and argued it into

tatters. Still, there was a sort of luxury in this grief.

"I can see myself a year hence," she went on contemptuously, "going to

flashy restaurants with you, and--perhaps, Archie, stealing spoons and

forks, and bringing them home--I say 'home' but I mean 'family

hotel'--as souvenirs. Mrs. Archer told me that all these women do that.

I think it loathsome and detestable, now, but I dare say that I shall be

exactly like the other women, as I am going to live in exactly the same

way, for exactly the same reason."

"You will never descend to that, my girl," I said solemnly.

"How do you know?" she asked perversely. "I dare say we shall be so

frantic for something to do that we shall look upon this kind of petty

theft as sport--just as some people regard fishing. Of course, we shall.

I imagine I shall feel proud of myself if I have successfully sneaked a

sugar-bowl, and I can picture your joy at landing a silver soup-tureen!

Oh, it will be exciting. We shall come to it; see if we don't."

"Please--please don't talk in that way, Letitia. Yesterday you were

quite resigned and even happy. I can't bear to see you in this mood. We

both agreed that the family hotel was the only hope. We were driven to

it--absolutely impelled to it. I think it is the packing that is

upsetting you."

"Sorry to trouble you," said Joe, poking his head in at the door; "we've

finished the parlor, and are now going to start on this room. We've left

two chairs in the parlor for you to sit on. Sorry to trouble you."

Poor Letitia gave way again, as she saw our little "drawing-room"

completely denuded. Nothing was left. Gone were the pictures, the

ornaments, the tiger-head, the Indian cabinet, the what-nots and

shelves, the footstools and plants. Barrels, crates, bits of wood,

nails, old newspapers, straw, littered the room. It was the abomination

of desolation.

Letitia sat and wept on one chair. I took the other and closed my eyes

in rueful meditation. Before my mental vision a procession of our

destroyers passed mockingly. I saw Anna Carter, Mrs. Potzenheimer,

Birdie Miriam McCaffrey, Gerda Lyberg, Olga Allallami, Madame Hyacinthe

de Lyrolle, Leonie, Katie Smith, Rachel, and--could I ever forget that

wistful, winsome face?--Priscilla Perfoozle. They seemed to glare at me

revengefully, as though their aims had been accomplished, and their fell

projects crowned with success. Then they formed a ring around me and

danced in fiendish abandon. Each appeared to wear a badge on the left

side of her bodice, just over the heart, and I could read the legend,

"Death to the Home." The sight was ghastly. They grinned from ear to

ear, in precisely the same way, and I was surprised to notice that their

black dresses, heavily trimmed with crape, were precisely alike, as

though they were all members of some devilish sisterhood. I believe I

tried to open my eyes; my heart was beating wildly; I could feel the

perspiration streaming from my face; I heard myself groan.

"Archie!" cried Letitia, at my side. "What _is_ the matter? My poor boy,

you have been asleep, and you must have been dreaming--at this time of

day, too! Oh, you poor thing, you feel it all even more than I do. How

selfish I am, after all--thinking only of myself. It is wicked of me and

ungrateful. After all, what does anything really matter, as long as we

have each other--you and I--and our health and our strength, and"--with

a smile--"the price."

Her words fell sweetly upon my ear. It was good to know that I had been

nightmaring in the daytime, and that the fiendish sisterhood was

intangible.

"Cheer up, Archie," she went on, "we were both silly, gloomy things, and

there is no reason why we should feel so oppressed, is there? As you

say, it is this packing that has upset us. Packing is a horrid

institution, anyway, even when one is going away for pleasure. I always

feel sorry to leave any place, even if I hate it; don't you, Archie? I

guess that we are both alike, and that we weren't built for such an

unsentimental place as New York City."

"We've nearly finished the dining-room," said Sam, looking in upon us

suddenly, "and we'd like to bring a few of the things in here, if you

wouldn't mind stepping into the bedroom! Sorry to trouble you, mum!"

In a less remorseful frame of mind, we were driven to our little

bedroom, as yet untouched. Letitia made a brave effort to remain calm. I

could see that she was biting her lip, and I appreciated her

determination so thoroughly that I made up my mind to do all I could to

steer clear of further pathos. We sat on the bed.

"I read this morning, Letitia," I said hurriedly, "that a bill has been

introduced into the Assembly for the protection of homes from the unfit

servants that are supplied by intelligence offices. It is asserted that

women who should not be permitted to come in contact with the family

circle are sent out. Strong arguments were made, and--"

Letitia smiled in spite of herself. "It is amusing," she said. "Why

bother about abolishing bad servants when there are no others? It is

wonderful how people can interest themselves in that side of the case,

when it is the other that is responsible for all our troubles. However,

I suppose they need their little pastimes, even in Albany, and the

uninitiated might think, when they read about it, that a bill to

abolish bad servants would help you to get good ones, which is, of

course, idiotic, as there are none."

"Of course you are right, dear," I said, glad to see that I had roused

her.

"Anyway," she continued, "most people don't want homes and have

forgotten what they are like, so that there is no need to feel too

regretful. Unfortunately, the real nuisance is that when we're old and

have grandchildren, we shall never be able to treat them in the good old

way. Grandpa and grandma will be in furnished rooms and the old

homestead will exist no more! Perhaps, after all, the home is just a

relic of barbarism. Even grandchildren, however, are going out of

fashion. New York women are too young to have them, and they have lost

the art of growing old. Fancy a New York grandmother in a cap, knitting,

with her grandchildren at her knee! No, Archie. She prefers yellow hair,

a blush (supplied from a nineteen-cent box) upon her cheek, and a

pneumatic figure pumped up around her poor old bones, to the ancient

poetic notion."

"It is the spirit of progress."

"Yes, dear, it must be. Grandma is a giddy young thing and not a bit

disturbed when grandpa is gathered unto his fathers. When that happens,

she very often marries a pretty little college lad, who was in long

dresses when her first grandchild was born. And she takes him to live

with her in the family hotel and provides for him generously. And when

she really can't live any longer--she would if she could--she dies and

leaves him her cash. Dear strenuous young-old thing! One can't help

admiring this wonderful tenacity."

"You and I are horridly old-fashioned, Letitia."

"And we _must_ reform," she declared emphatically. "It can't go on any

longer. To us, New York seems funny, doesn't it? And the complicated

relationships are so peculiar. An old woman (I beg her pardon, I mean a

woman who, years ago, would have been old) and her daughter, think

nothing of marrying brothers, and becoming all sorts of impossible

relations to each other. Even that most hackneyed of all comic

institutions, the mother-in-law, is a light and airy creature in this

country, and has no rooted objection to being sued by her own daughter

for alienating the affections of her own son-in-law."

Letitia's exaggerations made me laugh. But it did her good to think them

up and I made no protests. I was glad to see that she was herself again,

and that the nerve-racking noise of the packing no longer disturbed her

as acutely as it had done.

"These family hotels simplify things, of course," she said. "They do

away with all fuss and feathers. A man takes an elegantly furnished

suite, and just asks in a wife! An old lady engages a handsome apartment

and fishes up a husband to live in it with her. The _ménage_ starts

immediately. No furnishers, and decorators, and upholsterers, and

servants are necessary. Monsieur and Madame are at home instantly. In

the old days, the establishment of a home meant everything. Now it is

established almost as easily as it is broken up."

"We're ready for the bedroom, now"--Joe appeared again--"and if you

wouldn't mind stepping into the kitchen! Sorry to disturb you, mum!"

There was nothing pathetic about the kitchen. The sight of the kitchen

certainly awakened no regrets. The things were all packed, but we gazed

stolidly around us, at the place that had made home-life impossible.

"The poor still have their homes, Letitia," I said, "and the working

people have not yet experienced all the signs of the times that you

mention."

"They will come to it," she declared--and I couldn't help smiling at her

earnestness; "they are just waiting. Perhaps next century there will be

no work-people. The trades-unions are doing their best. You wonder how

I know all these things, Archie. Yes, you do; I can see it in your face.

Well, I'll tell you. For the last month I have been reading nothing but

these subjects. I haven't touched Ovid or Cicero. I don't believe I ever

shall again. I am so fearfully interested in a condition of society that

votes all labor a nuisance and consigns the 'sweat of the brow' to the

luxury of the Turkish bath."

"To think that cook has led us to this!" I murmured.

"Cook is the all-pervading evil, Archie. She is the outward

manifestation of this spirit of unrest. Mrs. Potzenheimer is but a type;

Birdie Miriam McCaffrey is merely symbolic; Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle

is simply--"

"Unfit for publication, my dear," I interposed, and we both smiled. The

rays of a gentle optimism were beginning to soothe us, as we realized

our own non-responsibility in the matter of Fate, personified by Cook!

At any rate, she had left us together. She had been powerless to

separate us.

* * * * *

It was over. We stood in the street and watched the last relics of our

little home, as they were placed in the storage-house wagons. They stood

on the pavement for rude little boys to stare at, awaiting the helping

hands of Jim, and Sam, and Joe. The Indian cabinet seemed to blink in

the sun, as it rested on the sidewalk, preparatory to its journey.

"Poor thing!" said Letitia, with a little gulp, as it was finally

hoisted into the wagon. "It was only meant to be ornamental. It tried

hard. It did its best. It stood by us, Archie, as long as it could. I

hate to think of it, locked up in seclusion, with nobody to look at it."

"There's our bureau!" I interrupted, as the pretty bit of furniture that

had been honored by the encumbrance of Letitia's dainty toilet silver

made its appearance out of doors, in the stark daylight. "I never

realized until now what a beauty it was. How they bang it about! They

have no respect for furniture. Here, you Jim"--to the son of toil--"try

and be careful. Honestly, Letitia, these household goods of ours seem to

be reproaching us."

"Dear old inanimates!" she cried. "I dare say they know that we couldn't

help it, that we were the victims of--Cook. Oh, Archie, there's the

tiger-head, tied up, but still quite recognizable."

The head had escaped from the restraining cords. It was salient, and

impressive. The mouth of the tiger was open, in a snarl, and the glass

eyes shone. Jim placed it on a chest of drawers, for which he was

making a corner in the wagon. Letitia approached it in a sort of

surreptitious manner, and patted the head. Then the foolish girl leaned

forward and deliberately kissed the soft, smooth fur. Two little boys

grinned derisively, and seemed to congratulate themselves upon their

excellent position for a free show.

The cab that was to take us to our family hotel stood at the door, and

the trunks, containing our wearing-apparel, were laboriously placed upon

it by the men. It was ready for us, but we could not tear ourselves away

from the uncanny fascination of the wagons. Letitia held my arm, and we

watched each fragment of our broken home, as it was lifted from our view

into the recesses of the greedy vehicle.

"Perhaps," I said, with a suspicious tremor in my voice, "we shall see

them again before very long. They are still ours, Letitia. I--I--shall

pay for their board every month; it--it will be a pleasure to do so. You

know, my girl, we can--we can call them back at any moment."

A large tear was trickling down Letitia's cheek, as she saw the men take

their places on the wagons and realized that this--this was, indeed, the

very end.

"No, Archie," she said, "we shall never call them back. We shall never

dare to do it. And, in the years to come, our experiences with these

dear old things--that, later on, we shall sell--will sound like some

absurd and far-fetched story that a new generation will never credit.

The question that has broken us will be solved only in the way in which

we are trying to solve it. There is, and there will be, no other

solution."

Jim smacked a whip; a huge "home"-laden wagon groaned and labored for a

moment; then it slowly and reluctantly moved away. We watched it until

it reached the corner and turned from our sight. The tears were

streaming down Letitia's face, and I must confess that I bit my mustache

so ferociously that I left ragged ends.

"Come, my girl," I said in a low voice, as I opened the door of the cab.

She got in, and I followed. We leaned back, heavy, silent, and with a

mortal sorrow in our hearts. Then--then--

We were driven swiftly away to a new condition of things, in which the

cooks shall cease from troubling, and we shall be at rest.

THE END