And then Mrs. Omicron is, perhaps, not so much of an amateur as you
assume. People learn by practice. Is there any reason in human nature
why a complex machine such as a house may be worked with fewer
breakdowns than an office or manufactory? Harness your imagination
once more and transfer to your house the multitudinous minor
catastrophes that happen in your office. Be sincere, and admit that
the efficiency of the average office is naught but a pretty legend. A
mistake or negligence or forgetfulness in an office is remedied and
forgotten. Mrs. Omicron--my dear Mr. Omicron--never hears of it. Not
so with Mrs. Omicron's office, as your aroused imagination will tell
you. Mrs. Omicron's parlourmaid's duster fails to make contact with
one small portion of the hall-table. Mr. Omicron walks in, and his
godlike glance drops instantly on the dusty place, and Mr. Omicron
ejaculates sardonically: "H'm! Four women in the house, and they can't
even keep the hall-table respectable!"

Mr. Omicron forgets a letter at the bottom of his unanswered-letter
basket, and a week later an excited cable arrives from overseas, and
that cable demands another cable. No real harm has been done. Ten
dollars spent on cables have cured the ill. Mrs. Omicron, preoccupied
with a rash on the back of the neck of Miss Omicron before-mentioned,
actually comes back from town without having ordered the mutton. In
the afternoon she realizes her horrid sin and rushes to the telephone.
The butcher reassures her. He swears the desired leg shall arrive. But
do you see that boy dallying at the street corner with his mate? He
carries the leg of mutton, and he carries also, though he knows it not
nor cares, the reputation and happiness of Mrs. Omicron. He is late.
As you yourself remarked, Mr. Omicron, if a leg of mutton is put down
late to roast, one of two things must occur--either it will be
under-cooked or the dinner will be late.