and--above all--that the soap-dish is not clean. Your servant may do
the rough work; the dainty, lady-like touch must be given by you.

You have an experienced waitress, and a jewel, if the dining-room and
table are perfect without your supervision. It may be only that a
teacup or plate is sticky or rough to the touch, a fork or a knife
needed, the steel or one of the carvers forgotten. But when the family
is assembled at the board, these trifles cause awkward pauses and
interruptions.

Other little cares are to ascertain that the water with which the tea
is made is boiling, that the alcohol lamp is filled, the flies brushed
from the room, the plates warmed, and the sugar-dishes and
salt-cellars filled. One housekeeper says that attention to these
duties always reminds her of the task of washing one's face. Nobody
notices if you keep your face clean, and you get no credit for doing
it, but if you did not wash it, all the world would remark upon the
dirt.

Often the work which "doesn't show" takes most time, and tries the
temper. And the hardest part of it all is that it is so frequently
caused by others' laziness or delinquencies. If John would only use an
ash-receiver, instead of strewing the veranda-floor with ashes and
burnt matches; if he would "just think" to close the library blinds
when he has finished looking for a missing book, instead of allowing
the hot sunshine and flies to enter at their own sweet will, until,
two hours after his departure for the office, you descend to the
apartment which you had already dusted and darkened, and find it
filled with heat and buzz! If that big boy of yours _could_ remember
to strip the covers from his bed when he arises and if your pretty