“Which one did you read, Marius or Alice?” I asked.
“Neither,” she smiled, as I locked the house behind us.
Chapter XII
SHOPPING AS A DISSIPATION
I thought I could move into my house on the first of June–but I didn’t. A rainy day followed the holiday, and in the rain we first set out the roses, which had arrived by freight and which Bert brought over from the village on an early trip, and then tackled the rest of the interior of the house. I wouldn’t let Miss Goodwin wash any windows, as that appeared to me to be Mrs. Pillig’s job, but we hung my few remaining pictures in the dining-room and hall, set up my old mahogany drop-leaf table for a dining-table–it was large enough for four people, on a pinch–and placed the only two straight-backed chairs I possessed on either side of it.
“Dear, dear!” said I. “I was going to have Mr. and Mrs. Bert and you as my guests at my first meal, but it looks as if you’d have to come alone.”
“You could bring in a chair and the piano bench from the south room,” she smiled. “A more important item seems to be dishes.”
“Heavens!” I cried, “I never thought of that! But I’ve got silver, anyway. I’ve kept all my mother’s silver. It’s in a tin box in the bottom drawer of my desk.”
“Well, that’s something,” she admitted. “Have you got tablecloths and napkins and kitchen utensils–to cook with, you know? And have you got some bedding for Mrs. Pillig and son Peter?”
I ruefully shook my head. “I’ve got a sleeping-bag, though, which Peter could put on the floor. What am I going to do?”