“I will dust,” said Susan, in a lovely voice, and as she spoke she involuntarily bent and swirled her limp muslins in such a way that she fairly suggested a moral duster. There was the making of an actress in Susan. Nobody had ever been able to decide what her true individual self was. Quite unconsciously, like a chameleon, she took upon herself the characteristics of even inanimate things. Just now she was a duster, and a wonderfully creditable duster.
“Who,” said Jane, “is going to sweep? Dear Annie has always done that.”
“I am not strong enough to sweep. I am very sorry,” said Susan, who remained a duster, and did not become a broom.
“If we have system,” said Eliza, vaguely, “the work ought not to be so very hard.”
“Of course not,” said Imogen. She had come in and seated herself. Her three sisters eyed her, but she embroidered imperturbably. The same thought was in the minds of all. Obviously Imogen was the very one to take the task of sweeping upon herself. That hard, compact, young body of hers suggested strenuous household work. Embroidery did not seem to be her role at all.
But Imogen had no intention of sweeping. Indeed, the very imagining of such tasks in connection with herself was beyond her. She did not even dream that her sisters expected it of her.
“I suppose,” said Jane, “that we might be able to engage Mrs. Moss to come in once a week and do the sweeping.”
“It would cost considerable,” said Susan.
“But it has to be done.”
“I should think it might be managed, with system, if you did not hire anybody,” said Imogen, calmly.