Again Minnie beamed.
“And so good!” she said. “Never a bit of trouble! Mother’s comfort, aren’t you, Sandra?”
“I are,” said the baby, seriously.
“When does she go to bed?” he enquired. He thought the little face looked pale and tired.
“Whenever I do,” Minnie answered, and then and there expressed her unalterable opposition to all these silly, high-flown ideas that women got out of books. (Mr. Petersen fancied he recognised this antagonism to book learning.) She brought up her Sandra according to her own common-sense and the dictates of a mother’s heart, and not according to doctors and books. In a natural way.
Mr. Petersen had nothing to say on that dangerous subject. He had come to ask Minnie if she would like to go to work in his office.
“But I don’t know anything. I can’t do anything!”
“You’ll learn easily.”
“And what could I do with Sandra?”
“I thought of that. My housekeeper’s a very fine woman; I spoke to her; she says she’d be glad to take care of the little girl all day.”