Yes, at one time—had to pawn things.
Miss Woodward.
I mean being one of fifteen in family—large inferior joints to last for days—hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd’s pie—[Gunning shudders at this]—too much potatoes—too much boiled rice—too much bread and dripping—too much weak tea—too much polishing up of things not worth polishing up—too much darning on too little material—and for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received. I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock—I mean a hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a frock!
Gunning.
Why don’t you write the story?
Miss Woodward.
Perhaps some day I shall try. [Returns to her work.] In the meantime you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to learn. I don’t think in all my life I’ve talked so much about myself as I have to you, a stranger.
[She keeps her eyes on her work.
Gunning.
You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another opportunity——