“I think the tune was fine,” put in Elizabeth, “but I can’t hand a thing to the words. Always hammering on girls to get married! It sounds too like home to me. I bet anything old Herrick was as withered and dried up as a salt herring. Losing his own prime was nothing. He, as a man, was perfectly sure that he was still attractive, married or unmarried—but the poor girls—it makes me more and more determined to get me a job.”
They all laughed heartily at Elizabeth’s taking the song personally and Mrs. Markle was much interested in what the girl expected to do and how soon she intended to begin doing it.
“I don’t blame you at all for wanting to do something. I often feel myself I should like to but Felix is so opposed. He is away so much I could easily carry on some occupation besides home making. What are you thinking of doing?”
“I don’t know. I can type but I don’t want to be a stenographer, at least I don’t want to be a man’s stenographer. Somebody might think it was up to me to marry the creature. I’d like to have a shop—a kind of literary work-shop—where one could get manuscript typed; where budding authors could have their spelling corrected and their punctuation put to rights. I’m a queen bee on spelling and punctuation. I might even write obituaries and valedictories for the going and coming. I might combine a kind of clipping bureau with it for folks who like to see their names in print. Of course I’d have to have a partner.”
“The very thing!” cried Mary Louise. “A friend of mine, Josie O’Gorman, wants to come to Dorfield to settle and she could go in with you. Josie is financially independent, but she says she simply must do something. You know her father was the great detective. He died last month,” she explained to Mrs. Markle.
“See, I have finished the rose!” Hortense interrupted and held it up for their inspection. It was so natural that one almost expected a fragrance to arise from it.
“But look! What is that on the edge of this petal?” cried Irene, who was bending over the embroidery entranced by its perfectness. “It looks like a tiny faded place.”
“So it is! That is where the tune got woven into my picture.
‘The same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.’”