“Lena’d be ’shamed to death if she knew you’d caught me doin’ my wash,” she whined. “I hope you won’t tell her. She can come down on me pretty hard sometimes, I tell you.”
“Oh, I won’t tell,” Mrs. Lenox laughed. “I only wish you had let me help. I was thinking what fun it must be—with a maid to hold the soap. It took me back to nursery days. I used to love to wash dolls’ clothes.”
“I don’t do it for fun,” Mrs. Quincy snapped. “But I ain’t provided with a servant that’s worth her salt. If anybody’s dependent, like I am, on a whipper-snapper son-inlaw, that ain’t got affection enough for me to spend an hour a week with me—why, I guess I have to pinch and scrape wherever I can. No knowin’ when I’ll git more. I’ve worked hard all my life for other folks, Mrs. Lenox. You can see by my hands how I’ve worked. And what do I get for it? A stranger like you is kinder to me than my own flesh and blood. And I know well enough that if Richard Percival throws me a crust, it’s only because he would be ashamed to have folks say his mother-in-law was starving. Oh, I let him know that I see through him whenever he comes near me—which ain’t very often. And Lena goes days and days and never comes to see me.” Her voice and her garrulity were rising, but here a sob gave pause, and Mrs. Lenox rushed in, repressing an impulse to say a word on the elementary laws of give and take in love.
“Well, I think you are very sensible to do the washing. One must have some occupation to fill the days, mustn’t one? And there aren’t many things, when one is tied to the house. If to-morrow is warm, I wonder if you would feel up to a little drive in the afternoon?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if I would.”
“And do you care for reading? I’ve brought you a rather clever little story. I see you have all the magazines.”
“Yes, Lena sends ’em. She thinks they’ll occupy me and save her the trouble of comin’ herself. But, good land, I don’t care for ’em beyond lookin’ at the pictures and the advertisements—except the Ladies’ Home Companion. That has good recipes in it; only Sarah can’t make nothin’ that’s fit to eat. But I did read that thing in the Chatterer about Miss Elton. You’ve seen it, of course!”—and she laughed with cheerful malice and licked her lips like a cat.
“About Miss Elton? In the Chatterer? I haven’t the least idea of what you are talking,” said Mrs. Lenox in a dazed way.
“It’s over there,” returned the lady, with a comprehensive wave of the thumb. “You can read it. Lena said it couldn’t be anybody else.” Mrs. Lenox rose and took the magazine from the table. She walked over to the window and deliberately turned her back on her hostess. Her hands shook a little as she turned page after page till her eyes fell on this little paragraph.
“In a certain western city which is famous for its flour and lumber interests, there lives a bachelor who has made it still more illustrious in the realms of art and literature. It is a standing insult to feminine humanity that a man both famous and wealthy should remain single, but, so far, all attacks upon the citadel of his heart have proved futile. Rumor now has it that a capitulation is imminent, but the besieging force has been driven to unusual measures to secure it. A college training gives a girl the advantage over her fellows, both in expedients and in determination. Not content with the extraordinary attractions conferred on her by her own beauty, the young lady who is ahead in the race for the gay bachelor’s heart has been carrying the war into Egypt. Gossip saith that there are quiet hours spent by these two in the seclusion of the bachelor’s stately home, when, doubtless, his masculine heart melteth within him, and the bonds of his servitude are tightened. Still, it is a dangerous game for a supposedly reputable girl to play, isn’t it? and a little—well, let us call it unconventional.”