"Oh, Lucy," she said in her musical voice, "will there be time for me to run over to the postoffice with some letters before lunch?" I stalked into the sitting-room. She was sitting at the desk in her graceful easy way, with a beautiful French hand-embroidered lingerie waist on, that I'd be glad to own for very best. There were gold beads about her neck, and her hair, even in the morning, was soft and fluffy and wavy. She had her feet crossed and I took in the silk stockings and the low dull-leather pumps. I had a sudden desire to tear down all her beautiful appearance of ease and grace. "We don't have lunch at noon," I said bluntly. "We have dinner, just dinner. We've always had dinner." "Yes, I know," she began in her persistently pleasant way; "people do very often, in New England." I couldn't bear her unruffled composure. "Oh," I said, bound to shock her, "it isn't because we're New England. It's because we're plain, plain people. The rich families in New England as well as anywhere, have dinner at night. But _we_," I said, glorying in every word, "are _not_ one of the rich families. We have doughnuts for breakfast, baked beans and brown bread Saturday nights, and Saturday noons a boiled dinner. We love pie. We all just _love it_. Father came from a farm in Vermont. He didn't have any money at all when he started in. You see we're common people. And so's Tom. Tom comes from just a common, common, _common_ family," I said, loving to repeat the word. She was sitting with her arm thrown carelessly over the back of the chair, and her gaze way out of the west window. When I stopped to see what effect my words had had she just laughed--a quiet pleased laugh--and mixed up with it I heard her say, "Why, Chenery is the most uncommon man I ever met." And she blushed like eighteen. I went right on. "We don't call him Chenery, either," I said. "We cut off all such fringes. He's plain Tom to us. I know how the plain way we live must impress _you_. I know you've been used to French maids, and push-a-button for everything you want. I'm sorry for the shock you must have got coming here. But you might as well wake up to the truth. You see what a mess the house is in, and how Nellie won't call us Mister and Miss, and how if she is on the third floor and she wants me she just yells. And," I said, pointing out of the window, "there goes Delia now. And there isn't a sign of a cook left in the house." Elise sat up straight. "Is she leaving without notice?" she exclaimed. "Naturally," I laughed. "How dreadfully unkind of her!" "That's what I think, but Delia doesn't care if I do." "Haven't you some one to help you out? What will you do?" Elise was really excited. "Do?" I replied grimly. "Oh, I'll duff in and cook myself, I suppose." Elise put down her pen.