"_You're_ not going to wash-up."

"But, Osborn, I shall have to, often. Every day, you know."

He looked a trifle unhappy over this, knitting his brows. Of course,
they had both known that the moment would come when Marie would handle
a dishcloth in the best interests of Number Thirty, but it had seemed
somewhat remote in those queer, forgotten unmarried days more than a
fortnight ago; more than ever remote during the stay in an hotel
palace.

"Yes, yes," he said, "I suppose so. I wish you needn't, though."

"I shan't mind. A little housework is very simple; people make such a
fuss about it; mother makes a horrible fuss. I shall always wear
gloves."

"That partly solves it," said Osborn nodding eagerly, "rubber gloves
for wet work, and housemaid's gloves for dry, eh, dearest? You will
always, won't you? You must let me buy you all the gloves you want."

"I have enough to begin with."

"You are a thoughtful little genius."

"We'll have to cook dinner to-night."

"Oh, great work!" cried Osborn.