The flush deepened. "You and Barbara have done me all the good in the world. You always do. Northlands is a sort of Fontaine de Jouvence for weary people."
That was as graceful as could be. And when she shook hands with me a short while afterwards through the carriage window, she thanked me for our long-sufferance with more spontaneous cordiality than she had ever before exhibited. I returned to my roses, feeling that, after all, we had done something to help the poor little lady on her way. If I had been a cat, I should have purred. After an hour or so, Barbara summoned me from my contemplative occupation.
"Yes, dear?" said I, at the library window.
"Have you written to Rogers?"
Rogers was a plumber.
"He's a degraded wretch," said I, "and unworthy of receiving a letter from a clean-minded man."
"Meanwhile," said Barbara, "the servants' bathroom continues to be unusable."
"Good God!" said I, "does Rogers hold the cleanliness of this household in his awful hands?"
"He does."
"Then I will sink my pride and write to him."