Her husband made a face.
“You never liked her, and I did wrong to have her here so much. Well, Roger, do you know I spent a large sum of money in entertaining that woman? I am ashamed to tell you how much. I had her here, morning, noon, and night. I took her up the river—you remember the decorated boats and the delightful music. It was charming, but we could not afford it, and when I went to New York she met me on Fifth Avenue, and said, ‘Oh, how do you do—so glad to see you. Be sure to call while you are here. My day is Friday.’ Then she swept away. That was a society woman who had graciously allowed me to amuse her during her summer trip to Maine. I was so hurt about it that I never told you.”
“What an empty head,” said Roger, picking up the list.
“It taught me a lesson,” continued his wife. “Now go on—do read the other things.”
His eyes had run down to the total. “Whew, Margaretta!—you don’t mean to say you have saved all this in a month?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I haven’t felt any tightening in your household arrangements. Why, at what a rate were we living?”
“At a careless rate,” said Margaretta, seriously, “a careless, slipshod rate. I bought everything I wanted. Flowers, in spite of our greenhouse, fruit and vegetables out of season, in spite of our garden, but now I look in the shop windows and say with a person I was reading about the other day, ‘Why, how many things there are I can do without,’—and with all my economy I have yet managed to squeeze out something for Grandma. I just made her take it.”
Roger’s face flushed. “Margaretta, if you will keep this thing going, we won’t have to give up this house.”
“I’ll keep it going,” said Margaretta, solemnly, “you shall not leave this house. It would be a blow to your honest pride.”