“Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs—like snails!”
“Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.”
“Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care—come and try it awhile, that's all!”
“Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered Isabel promptly.
“Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy—but this business”—she swept a white hand wearily about—“it's not my work, that's all.”
“But you enjoy it, don't you—I mean having nice things?” asked her friend.
“Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!”
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You're lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?”
Mrs. Porne flushed. “I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.”
“That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you—with this other Belle to the fore?”