"The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but—"
"But what?" he urged expectantly.
"Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things will spile."
"Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little misplaced matter."
"'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly.
"Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up' again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean the rooms."
"She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough."
"And are you quite proficient as a blanchisseuse?"
Amarilly looked at him unperturbed.
"I kin scrub," she remarked calmly.