He hastened to jot it down in a notebook. His first little commission for his wife! For Miss Amber there had been many, but this was almost epoch-making as being for Mrs. Osborn Kerr. "I'll get it in the dinner-hour, or on my way home. Can't you think of anything else you want?"
"I have everything else."
"You always shall have."
"What was the kitchen like?" Marie asked. "Was it tidy?"
"It's the smartest little place."
"I'll see it presently, when we wash-up."
"You're not going to wash-up."
"But, Osborn, I shall have to, often. Every day, you know."
He looked a trifle unhappy over this, knitting his brows. Of course, they had both known that the moment would come when Marie would handle a dishcloth in the best interests of Number Thirty, but it had seemed somewhat remote in those queer, forgotten unmarried days more than a fortnight ago; more than ever remote during the stay in an hotel palace.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I suppose so. I wish you needn't, though."