“What?” asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond beauty. “I am afraid,” said Jane, “that people have a sort of general impression that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps sweeter.” “Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition,” said Imogen, taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. “But a sweet disposition is very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, and she should not have it.” Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. “I suppose it follows, then,” said she, with slight irony, “that only an angel can have a very sweet disposition without offending others.” But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of thought. “And with all her sweet disposition,” said she, “nobody can deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such a strange thing.” “Who is going to get up and get breakfast in the morning, and wash the dishes?” inquired Jane, irrelevantly. “All I ever want for breakfast is a bit of fruit, a roll, and an egg, besides my coffee,” said Imogen, with her imperious air. “Somebody has to prepare it.” “That is a mere nothing,” said Imogen, and she took another stitch. After a little, Jane and Eliza went by themselves and discussed the problem. “It is quite evident that Imogen means to do nothing,” said Jane. “And also that she will justify herself by the theory that there is nothing to be done,” said Eliza. “Oh, well,” said Jane, “I will get up and get breakfast, of course. I once contemplated the prospect of doing it the rest of my life.” Eliza assented. “I can understand that it will not be so hard for you,” she said, “and although I myself always aspired to higher things than preparing breakfasts, still, you did not, and it is true that you would probably have had it to do if poor Henry had lived, for he was not one to ever have a very large salary.” “There are better things than large salaries,” said Jane, and her face looked sadly reminiscent. After all, the distinction of being the only one who had been on the brink of preparing matrimonial breakfasts was much. She felt that it would make early rising and early work endurable to her, although she was not an active young woman.