Lydia found the negress with her wraps on, glooming darkly, “Mis’ Hollister, I’m gwine to leave,” she announced briefly.
Lydia felt for a chair. Mary had promised faithfully to stay through the winter, until after her confinement. “What’s the matter, Mary?”
“I cyant stay in no house wheah de lady says I drinks.”
“You will stay until—until I am able to be about, won’t you?”
“My things is gone aready,” said Mary, moving heavily toward the door, “and I’m gwine now.” As she disappeared, she remarked casually, “I didn’t have no time to wash the supper dishes. Good-by.”
“What’s the matter with Mary?” called Paul.
Lydia went back to him, trying to smile. “She’s gone—left,” she announced.
Paul opened his eyes with a look of keen annoyance. “You can’t break in a new cook now!” he said. “She can’t go now!”
“She’s gone,” repeated Lydia wearily. “I don’t know how anybody could make her stay.”
Paul got up from the couch with his lips closed tightly together, and, sitting down in a straight chair, took Lydia on his knee as though she were a child. “Now, see here, my wife, you mustn’t get your feelings hurt if I do some plain talking for a minute. You’ve been telling me what you think about things, and now it’s my turn. And what I think is that if my dear young wife would spend more time looking after her own business she’d have fewer complaints to make about my doing the same. The thing for you to do is to accept conditions as they are and do your best in them—and, really, Lydia, make your best a little better.”