"Yes, so many other people seem to get that kind of girls, so devoted and such competent ones; but, for my part, I don't see where they find them. I pay the very highest prices, and I always look up their references; but they all are just alike. I have had nine different cooks, the last five months, and each one was a little worse than—"
"I met Mr. Brenton just now," Olive cut in, with decision.
"Did you?" his wife inquired indifferently. "I didn't know he had gone out."
"Yes." Olive's decision increased a little. "I thought he wasn't looking very well."
"Scott? Oh, he's well enough. What should ail him?" Kathryn loosened her soggy draperies for an instant, then tightened them in the reverse direction. "He hasn't a worry to his name, hardly a care."
Struggle as she would, Olive knew her accent was becoming more dry with every sentence that she uttered.
"I should have supposed the church—"
"Church? That's nothing. At least, it's only in his line of business, the thing that he set his heart upon and trained for. I wonder what he would say, if he had the care of this great house."
"It is larger than most rectories," Olive made polite assent.
But swiftly Kathryn retrieved her blunder.