"Nobody is content any more to work his own land or learn a trade; everybody must scramble for the big money prizes, the privilege of being an _employer_ of labor." It was a deed of some daring to interrupt the flow of masculine talk, but Val sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, saying firmly: "Americans can't help being ambitious. They know there's a great deal to do." "There _is_ a great deal to be done; but the American has mistaken notions as to what. The American artisan thinks his son must aim at being a boss, if not being President. The farmer thinks he's doing his share when he hires hands and sends his own boys to swell the stream of clerks and town-strugglers. The infection seized on the women about thirty years ago." "Stick up for us," whispered Val's voice behind Ethan. "The result is," her father went on, "it's harder to find in America to-day a good cook or chambermaid than to find a woman musician, novelist, linguist, or painter." "Say something," admonished the low voice from the bottom step. "I imagine," the perfidious Ethan remarked, "that there are accomplished persons on both sides the sea who are ready to excel in any art except the art of being of use." "Exactly. These people no doubt exist everywhere, but they should be swept off the face of America." Val looked out anxiously past the sheltering form of her cousin. "Farmers', tradesmen's daughter's all over the land are giving up house-work"--Val withdrew her head and sat in obscurity--"giving up field and dairy work. Their foolish fathers buy them pianos, buy them novels; and able-bodied young women idle away their days in rocking-chairs, breeding discontent and disease." Val appeared to be making preparations to retire. "You think," asked Ethan, "there is any application in the fact--to--a people of another class?" "Most assuredly. What the ignorant ignorantly despise, we must elevate. We must show them the bottomless vulgarity of their view." The restive movement on the bottom step augmented his ire. "I assure you the market cries aloud for house-keepers, nurses, laundresses, sempstresses. We are not in need of any more poetesses, department clerks, _singers_." He had got up and was glowering unmistakably at the girl who had risen from the bottom step. "It's too bad, father, your going back on my singing, just because I forgot to mend your coat. I thought you were an invalid in bed. I didn't expect you to climb trees to-day." "To-day has got nothing to do with it, although I _am_ surprised and disappointed that you want your grandmother to engage some raw Irish girl--" "Only while we have company." "Company!" he said, bristling more than ever. "What can 'company' get but profit out of seeing that _we_ think nobly of work; that we're ready to do our part towards turning domestic and industrial service from an ugly slavery into a beautiful and noble privilege." "Come, Emmie," said Val, "let's get our things off."