“I wondered,” said Silvia ruefully, 35 “what made my tooth powder disappear so rapidly. What shall I do!”
“Resort to strategy!” I advised. “Lock up your powder hereafter and fill an empty bottle with powdered alum or something worse and leave it around handy.”
“Lucien!” exclaimed my wife, who could not seem to recover from this latest annoyance, “I don’t see how you can be so fond of children. I did hope––for your sake and––on account of Uncle Issachar’s offer that I’d like to have one––but I’d rather go to the poorhouse! I’d almost lose your affection rather than have a child.”
“But, Silvia!” I remonstrated in dismay, “you shouldn’t judge all by these. They’re not fair samples. They’re not children––not home-grown children.”
“I should say not!” agreed Huldah, who had come into the room. “They are imps––imps of the devil.”
I believe she was right. They had a generally demoralizing effect on our household. I was growing irritable, Silvia careworn. Even Huldah showed their influence by acquiring the very latest in slang from them. Once in a while to my amusement I heard Silvia unconsciously adopting the Polydore argot.
As the result of their better nourishment at our table, the imps of the devil daily grew more obstreperous and life became so burdensome to Silvia that I proposed moving away to a childless neighborhood.
“They’d find us out,” said Silvia wearily, “wherever we went. Distance would be no obstacle to them.”
“Then we might move out of town, as a last resort,” I suggested. “Rob says he thinks there is a good legal field in–––”