“But I want to. I want to—to tend to things,” faltered Billy, with a half-fearful glance into her husband's face.
Billy was hearing very loudly now that accusing “If you'd tend to your husband and your home a little more—” Bertram, however, was not hearing it, evidently. Indeed, he seemed never to have heard it—much less to have spoken it.
“'Tend to things,'” he laughed lightly. “Well, you'll have enough to do to tend to the maid, I fancy. Anyhow, we're going to have one. I'll just step into one of those—what do you call 'em?—intelligence offices on my way down and send one up,” he finished, as he gave his wife a good-by kiss.
An hour later Billy, struggling with the broom and the drawing-room carpet, was called to the telephone. It was her husband's voice that came to her.
“Billy, for heaven's sake, take pity on me. Won't you put on your duds and come and engage your maid yourself?”
“Why, Bertram, what's the matter?”
“Matter? Holy smoke! Well, I've been to three of those intelligence offices—though why they call them that I can't imagine. If ever there was a place utterly devoid of intelligence-but never mind! I've interviewed four fat ladies, two thin ones, and one medium with a wart. I've cheerfully divulged all our family secrets, promised every other half-hour out, and taken oath that our household numbers three adult members, and no more; but I simply can't remember how many handkerchiefs we have in the wash each week. Billy, will you come? Maybe you can do something with them. I'm sure you can!”
“Why, of course I'll come,” chirped Billy. “Where shall I meet you?”
Bertram gave the street and number.
“Good! I'll be there,” promised Billy, as she hung up the receiver.