She rummaged around until she found a rag that would serve as a duster.
“Now, please don’t bother, Miss——” he began.
“I’m married,” she corrected soberly. “Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Well, Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t bother to do that. Really, I’m afraid I enjoy dirt.”
“Nobody enjoys dirt,” was her severe reply. “Not if they can be clean.”
He sat and watched her. He couldn’t help laughing. With deft hands she seemed to fathom every hiding-place of dust. And he noticed that her cheeks, which had been pale enough when she came in, were becoming radiant.
Pretty soon she turned her attention to the bed. “Well, of all the messes I ever saw!” she exclaimed. “Who ever showed you how to make up a bed?”
“You just watch me,” she told him. “Like this—and then like this—then you smooth it out—see?”
“It sure does look better,” he admitted. “But please don’t poke around in the kitchen. At least spare me that mortification.”
She didn’t heed his plea. “I thought so!” she exclaimed. “Not a dish washed!”