Polly, who was making out her washing list, writing the items down with savage dabs to get some response from a pencil with a broken lead, asked in a curt sort of way:
“Why not?”
“It is not respectful,” Winifred explained.
“Then,” said Polly, looking up with a defiant, not to say joyous, gleam in her eyes, “it is the one thing that I shall continue to say! I must have a vent somewhere!” she finished, as she returned to the washing list and the impotent pencil.
After a moment of silent reproach from Winifred, Polly broke forth into speech again.
“Oh, how I hate Mondays! How I loathe Mondays! How I wish one could skip every Monday that ever comes!”
“Tuesdays would be just the same,” said Winifred, with her superior smile.
“There ought to be no beginning to the week at all. What good does it serve? Why can’t we run straight along in one unbroken line, I should like to know? There must be something vicious about a Monday. Look what a bad effect it has on all of us.”
It was now Winifred’s turn.
“I do wish, Polly,” she said, sharply, “that you would come and do your share of the room instead of talking such a lot of rubbish!”