too much. Have a cold lunch--bread and milk, you know, or something
like that."

I smiled, and said that would not be necessary. Nor was it. For five
years after my marriage I had been my own maid-servant--and those were
happy days. My right hand had by no means forgotten her cunning. As for
both the Gay Lady's pretty hands--they were very accomplished in
household arts. And she had put on the blue-and-white gingham.

"I can wipe dishes," offered the Philosopher, as we rose from the table.

"It's a useful art," said the Gay Lady. "In ten minutes we'll be ready
for you."

The Skeptic looked about him. Then he hurried away without saying
anything. Two minutes later I found him making his bed.

"Go away," he commanded me. "It'll be ship-shape, never fear. You
remember I was sent to a military school when I was a youngster."

From below, as I made Azalea's bed, the strains of one of the Liszt
Hungarian Rhapsodies floated up to me. Azalea was playing. We had fallen
into the habit of drifting into the living-room, where the piano stood,
every morning immediately after breakfast, to hear Azalea play. In the
evenings she sang to us; but one does not sing directly after breakfast,
and only second in delight to hearing Azalea's superb voice was
listening to her matchless touch upon the keyboard. I said to myself, as
I went about the "upstairs work"--work that the Skeptic, with all his
good will, could not do, not being allowed to cross certain
thresholds--that we should sorely miss Azalea's music when she should go