“Yes. That isn’t a washing day or a cleaning day, is it?”
“No.”
Mr. Waring looked confounded.
“You’ve spoken so many times of their not coming out in the whole year we’ve lived here, I thought you’d be glad, Doll.”
“Henry, why do you never call me Ethel any more? You used to say it was the most beautiful name in the world, and now you seem to forget that I have any name. Oh, if you knew how sick I get of always being called Doll! Such a horrid, common-sounding thing!”
“Why, Doll—”
“There it is again!”
“Ethel, my dear girl, don’t cry. If I had had the dimmest idea—I seem always fated to do the wrong thing lately. Why can’t you tell me sometimes what you’re driving at? If you don’t want my mother and the girls, just say so. I can send them word to-morrow, and—”
“If you do!” Mrs. Waring stood up tragically with one hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have such a thing happen for worlds.” She gave a little gasp of horror at the thought. “But, oh, Henry, you nearly kill me sometimes! No, if you don’t know why this time, I shall not tell you again.” She leaned her head against her husband as if exhausted, and submitted to be drawn down beside him once more. “You never think of me any more.”
“But I do think of you, sweetheart.” He patted her head persuasively. “Lots of times, when you don’t know it. If you’d only tell me what you want, dear. I’m such a bad guesser. And I know you really do wish to see my mother and show her the children.”