“I can sew braid on your dresses, and darn your stockings, and button up your dresses, and brush your hair, too, just as well as anybody,” she said.
Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her. “You dear,” she said, “as if you didn't have enough to do now!”
“This is a very convenient house to do work in,” said Sylvia, “and now I have my washing and ironing done, I've got time on my hands. I like to sew braid on and darn stockings, and always did, and it's nothing at all to fasten up your waists in the back; you know that.”
“You dear,” said Rose again. She nestled her fair head against Sylvia's slim knees. Sylvia thrilled. She touched the soft puff of blond hair timidly with her bony fingers. “But I have always had a maid,” Rose persisted, in a somewhat puzzled way. Rose could hardly conceive of continued existence without a maid. She had managed very well for a few days, but to contemplate life without one altogether seemed like contemplating the possibility of living without a comb and hair-brush. Sylvia's face took on a crafty expression.
“Well,” said she, “if you must have a maid, write your friends, and I will have another leaf put in the dining-table.”
Rose raised her head and stared at her. “Another leaf in the dining-table?” said she, vaguely.
“Yes. I don't think there's room for more than four without another leaf.”
“But—my maid would not eat at the table with us.”
“Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen—cold victuals—after we had finished?”
Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. “No, she would not; at least, no maid I ever had would have,” she admitted.