Then she began to consider how many beds she could make up, and what she should leave, what she should take, and what she should lock up; whether she should allow the use of the piano, and whether the pictures should be covered; till her husband impatiently cried—
“Oh, hang the pictures!” and then laughed at his ridiculous exclamation.
“But really, Emma,” continued he, “you need not give Mrs. Cheerlove a list of all the cracked wine-glasses.”
“I haven’t a list to give,” said she with simplicity. “Perhaps it would be well if I kept one.”
“You must make an inventory now, at any rate. Set about it this morning—it will keep you amused for a week.”
“My dear Alfred, you are always finding things for me to do, instead of yourself. You forget the baby.”
“You take good care, my dear, I shall not do that. Mrs. Cheerlove, how I do wish we could enlist you amongst us!”
“As what?” said I, amazed.
“As a contributor. Oh, you need not look so conscious!—murder will out. I know you write. Now, do give me—poor, toil-worn editor as I am—some little assistance. On public and local affairs, of course, I want no aid; what I desire is historical anecdote, biographical sketches, traits of character and experience—all that sort of materiel for thought which may or may not be used, according to the will of the reader—pleased with the thing as it stands, but not always disposed to carry it on.”
He spoke earnestly and well.