Naturally lunch was late. You knew it would be, and Jane was very sorry but she had forgotten to order the cream. After lunch there was an awful row with the baby. He was left alone while nurse went down to get some drinking water, and he fell off his chair—there has to be some one always on the spot with children. You can’t turn your back a minute, etc.
Probably the doctor called at tea-time and asked why you were up, and it is improbable in the extreme that he took in one word of your lucid explanation of the facts. He would tell you, if you asked him, that women make difficulties, and that he himself once had a week in bed and that everything went on just as usual. But then doctors don’t mind the room not being “done,” and their daily work doesn’t behave like a sucking-kid after its mother. It stays where it is until its master comes to fetch it, and if it isn’t done, well then, it just isn’t, and that’s all about it.
CHAPTER VI: THE “WHAT THE DEVIL?” CLUB
“It wouldn’t be a bad plan, dear,” Mrs. Henry once said sarcastically to her husband, “if you were to start a ‘What the devil?’ club; you use the expression so frequently.” The club was never founded, of course, but it wouldn’t have been at all a bad plan. It would tend to clear the mind. For instance, say that at breakfast the eggs were a little underdone. If instead of exclaiming, “What the devil has cook been about?” you reflect, “What the devil does it matter whether these eggs stick together in the shell or pour over the edge? The fact that the eggs are there, and are more or less edible is enough for me,” just think of the different complexion it would put on the whole affair. But in fact it wouldn’t do, because different people have such different ideas about what they describe as “the things that matter.” The last time I called on Mrs. Henry she seemed very pleased about having had this idea of the club, and was quite excited at having used the word “devil.” She had a brother staying with her at the time, and I think it was partly his robust influence that made her break out and be so racy.
“Henry’s perfectly right, Maria, though he doesn’t know it,” said this brother. “There must be at least fifty occasions a day for saying ‘What the devil?’ in your house.”
“Whatever do you mean, William?” said Mrs. Henry indulgently. He is her favourite brother.
“I’ll show you as we go along,” he answered, “I dare say the opportunities will turn up.”
“I can’t believe that France will go to war,” observed Mrs. Henry a little later.
“What the devil does that matter?” replied William. “I beg your pardon, Maria, but it was your own idea. You see it is really of no consequence whether you believe it or not; it won’t alter the fact.”
“Oh, of course, if you look at it like that, William,” said Mrs. Henry a little huffily, “it doesn’t matter what you believe. You might apply your theory to anything.”