Cooks -- Fiction; Household employees -- Fiction; Housekeeping -- Fiction; Married people -- Fiction
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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