Elizabeth unhated me, ruffling my newly-made hair in the process.
It took but two strides to reach the dressing-table; it was the work of hardly one minute to collect that ever-growing herd of assertive "has beens," and then ... I began to wonder where I was going to throw them.
Where did one generally throw away things? Out of the window?
I turned my head away in horror. Who was I that I should shower razor blades on that passing archdeacon?
The waste-paper basket?
My housemaid's life was too valuable.
The dust-bin?
But there again the dustman might delve; the Employers' Liability Act is a tricky business and I am only insured against my own death—which always seems to me silly.
"Look here," I said, "it's not so easy to throw these things away as you appear to think. Where am I to throw them?"
Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest places. Then she shut it again without speaking and became thoughtful.