"Why, wot's wrong with it?" demanded Elizabeth, puzzled. "All the girls I
know spends their 'olidays with their young men, an' then it doesn't cost
them nothink. That's the best of it. But it's the first time I've ever been
arsked," she admitted, "an' I wouldn't lose a charnce like this for
anythink."

Further appeal was useless, and with a sigh I resigned myself to the
inevitable; but when, ten days later, Elizabeth departed in a whirl of
enthusiasm and brown paper parcels I turned dejectedly to the loathsome
business of housework.

It is a form of labour which above all others I detest. My _métier_ is to
write--one day I even hope to become a great writer. But what I never hope
to become is a culinary expert. Should you command your cook to turn out a
short story she could not suffer more in the agonies of composition than I
do in making a simple Yorkshire pudding.

My household now passed into a condition of settled gloom. My nerves began
to suffer from the strain, and I came gradually to regard Henry as less of
a helpmate and more of a voracious monster demanding meals at too frequent
intervals. It made me peevish with him.

He too was far from forbearing in this crisis. In fact we were getting
disillusioned with each other.

One evening I was reflecting bitterly on matters like washing-up when Henry
came in. Only a short time before we should have greeted each other
cordially in a spirit of _camaraderie_ and affection. Now our conversation
was something like this:--