“Yes!”
“He was a wonderful man, so I have heard.”
“Yes, he was, thank you.” Josie’s tone was quite final, so Hortense did not pursue the subject.
“What else are you to do in your shop?” she asked.
“Oh, we are to have the literary work-shop, of which I spoke to you,” said Elizabeth. “And we are to have antiques of all kinds, and we are to take orders for sewing and fancy work. We will order any book direct from the publisher. We take orders for score cards, menu cards, name cards, or anything of that sort. Of course, we don’t do those things ourselves, but we will take the orders and get a small commission for them. Now Josie wants to open up a laundry where we have all kinds of fine laces, table linen, etc., done up. If that grows we shall have to get someone to take hold of it, but Josie says she can wash and iron as well as a blanchisseuse de fin and, if we don’t get too many orders, she will attend to that end herself.”
“It is my one accomplishment,” said Josie, “and I have a passion for it. I’d rather launder laces and fine linen than do anything in the world. I am no good at sewing or embroidering, but I can certainly add to anyone’s needlework by my manipulation of a flat-iron.”
“How interesting!” said Hortense. “Now I adore needlework, but am helpless with an iron and the more I wash things the dirtier they get. I have just finished some napkins and despair of ever getting them done up properly. My maid is a wretched laundress, almost as bad as her mistress. How I should love to be your first customer! Please let me bring my damask to you.”
“Why, of course,” answered Josie. “As soon as the boys get the gas stove up I am ready for washing and as soon as they get the electric wires installed I am ready for ironing.”
Irene had gone on steadily with her dusting while Hortense had been talking, never once looking up from her task. Occasionally, she opened one of the books and glanced at its contents. What a lot of learning one could find between the covers of those solid books! One long narrow book with a binding evidently home-made attracted her attention. She opened it, but its contents were still as a closed book to her. It was closely written manuscript of strange characters about as unintelligible as the notes of a stenographer would ordinarily be to her employer.
“What is this, Josie?”