“Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till after we were through and eat in the dining-room?”
“I don't believe she would like that, either.”
“Where is she going to eat?” demanded Sylvia, inexorably.
Rose gazed at her.
“She could have a little table in here, or in the parlor,” said Sylvia.
Rose laughed. “Oh, that would never do!” said she. “Of course there was a servants' dining-room at Mrs. Wilton's, and there always is in a hotel, you know. I never thought of that.”
“She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to eat?” asked Sylvia, pressing the question.
Rose got up and kissed her. “Oh, well, I won't bother about it for a while, anyway,” said she. “Now I think of it, Betty is sure to be off to Newport by now, and Sally must be about to sail for Paris to buy her trousseau. She is going to marry Dicky van Snyde in the autumn (whatever she sees in him)! So I doubt if either of them could do anything about a maid for me. I won't bother at all now, but I am not going to let you wait upon me. I am going to help you.”
Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it. “I guess you can't do much with hands like yours,” said she, admiringly, and with an odd tone of resentment, as if she were indignant at the mere suggestion of life's demanding service from this dainty little creature, for whom she was ready to immolate herself.
However, Rose had in her a vein of persistency. She insisted upon wiping the dishes and dusting. She did it all very badly, but Sylvia found the oddest amusement in chiding her for her mistakes and in setting them right herself. She would not have been nearly as well pleased had Rose been handy about the house. One evening Henry caught Sylvia wiping over all the dishes which Rose had wiped, and which were still damp, the while she was fairly doubled up with suppressed mirth.