“Black?”
“Yes,—a good deal like Polly,” answered Zee, cheerfully.
“What else do you keep?”
“There’s the laundress. She’s like Polly, too,—the same dusky race. They all look alike to me.”
“They use chemicals,” observed Mrs. Forrest. “All American laundresses use chemicals. What else?”
“There’s a man. He’s Polly’s grandfather or uncle—something like that. He’s a general utility, and only comes on call.”
“Better get rid of the whole lot.”
“In time, of course. I’m going to see what I can do with this old furniture first.”
“You’d better buy what you need new. I never had any patience with this idea of gathering up old rubbish just because it’s old. And then there’s the microbe theory; it sounds reasonable and there’s probably a good deal in it.”
“Horrors! The garret’s probably full. Perhaps there are some in those love-letters.” Zelda laughed; her mirth was seemingly spontaneous, and bubbled up irrelevantly.