“But the heels! Look at the heels. Why you have not brush them. Oh, I nevaire see child like that. You just brush in front.”
“Well, how can I see the heels? I’m no contortionist.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! He brush his boots after he puts them on. Oh, what a cabbage head I have for husband!”
“Well, isn’t that the right way?”
“Nom d’un chien! Give me your patte.”
Then what a storm if I try to go out with a hole in my socks!
“Oh, dear! I nevaire see man like that. Suppose you get keel in the street, and some one take off your boots, sink how you are shamed. What shame for me, too, if I have husbands keel wiz hole in his sock!”
In addition to her other duties I have made her my Secretary. Alas! I must confess some of my valiant manuscripts have come sneaking back with unflattering promptitude. It is a new experience and a bitter one. Yet I think my chief concern is that Anastasia’s faith in me should be shattered. After the first unbelieving moment I threw the things aside in disgust.
“They’re no good. I’ll never send them out again.”
“Oh, don’t say that, darleen. You geeve to me and I send away some more.”