HOUSEWORK—AND THE MAN
By Freeman Tilden
“And you live here—all alone?” she said.
“It looks it, doesn’t it?” replied Archer, with a little embarrassed grin. “I have a woman come in once a week to clean up. I do the rest—when it gets done. I suppose it looks pretty bad—to you.”
She ran her finger appraisingly along the table and held it up. It was covered with dust. She laughed. “Men can’t keep house,” she said.
She rummaged around until she found a rag that would serve as a duster.
“Now, please don’t bother, Miss——” he began.
“I’m married,” she corrected soberly. “Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Well, Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t bother to do that. Really, I’m afraid I enjoy dirt.”
“Nobody enjoys dirt,” was her severe reply. “Not if they can be clean.”
He sat and watched her. He couldn’t help laughing. With deft hands she seemed to fathom every hiding-place of dust. And he noticed that her cheeks, which had been pale enough when she came in, were becoming radiant.
Pretty soon she turned her attention to the bed. “Well, of all the messes I ever saw!” she exclaimed. “Who ever showed you how to make up a bed?”
“You just watch me,” she told him. “Like this—and then like this—then you smooth it out—see?”
“It sure does look better,” he admitted. “But please don’t poke around in the kitchen. At least spare me that mortification.”
She didn’t heed his plea. “I thought so!” she exclaimed. “Not a dish washed!”
“I was going to wash them this afternoon,” said Archer humbly.
“Huh! don’t you know it’s twice as hard after you let them stand? Where’s the dishcloth?”
“Oh, come now, really, I won’t have you——”
She paid no attention to him. “What pretty dishes!” she said, as the hot water began to run.
“Five-and-ten cent store,” Archer laughed.
“Really? And they look much prettier than mine. Do you know, I think this is a dear little place.”
“Dishwashing is the worst part of it,” said the young man.
“Listen,” she told him. “Whenever the dishes have egg on them, don’t put the hot water on first. Watch me....”
She even insisted on rearranging his little closet of dishes. She cleaned the top of the gas range. Archer vainly tried to prevent her. She was singing now, as she worked. She straightened the pictures on the wall. She averred that she couldn’t be happy till she had swept the place from end to end.
After it was all over they sat down facing each other. There was a pink flush of satisfaction on her cheeks.
“And I never knew who lived up here,” she began. “I must say you’re quiet. These apartment houses are just like a lot of cigar boxes. You know our flat is right underneath.”
“It’s so decent of you,” began Arthur.
“Listen,” she interrupted. “I’ve had a perfectly splendid time. I suppose I must be going now. It’s five o’clock, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
At the door she stopped and said, “I’ve often seen you down at the street door, and wondered whether you’d speak some time. You don’t think—because I came in here——”
“I think nothing,” he said.
“I knew you were that kind of a fellow,” she whispered, and fled downstairs.
· · · · · · ·
Kincaid came in at 6:10.
“Supper ready?” he asked.
She threw down the magazine she was reading. “I guess you won’t starve! It’s nothing but cook, cook all the time, anyway. I’m getting tired of it.”
Kincaid said nothing. His fingers were resting on the dining-table. When he took them away there were little patches of varnish showing through the dust.
She went out into the kitchen and wearily put on a torn apron. The sink was full of unwashed dishes. He saw them and was unwise enough to comment on what he saw.
She turned upon him like a flash.
“If you don’t like to see them, wash them yourself,” she said. “I’m sick of housework, anyway.”