Wanza spoke abruptly. “No! Oh, no! No, indeed!” she declared.
I was puzzled. “Why,” I said, “I thought the plan a capital one.”
“But it isn’t. Just think of it, Mr. Dale. Daddy at home alone every evening, and me—all smugged up, asetting there on one side of the kitchen table—her on the other—me asewing, and her aknitting and asleeping in her chair. Oh, I think I have a large sized picture of myself doing it.”
“Wanza,” I began tactfully, “how old do you think the lady is?”
Wanza’s lips drew down, and she shook her head.
“She is not old,” I ventured.
“But I hate rich ladies when they’re middle-aged, Mr. Dale. A rich woman, middle-aged, is as bad as a poor one when she’s terrible, squeezy old. The rich one’ll want tea and toast in bed, and a fire in her bedroom.”
“Well,” I said, “I can’t vouch for the lady’s personal habits, but I’m quite certain she won’t nod over her knitting, and I shouldn’t call her middle-aged, Wanza.”
Wanza looked suddenly suspicious. “Is she the lady as came to your workshop, Mr. Dale?”
“Yes, Wanza.”