"Oh, there ain't a room in the house fit fer comp'ny t' walk into,"
expostulated the Countess while she scrubbed. "I do like t' see a
house clean when folks is expected that only come t' be critical an'
make remarks behind yer back the minit they git away. If folks got
anything t' say I'd a good deal ruther they said it t' my face an' be
done with it. 'Yuh can know a man's face but yuh can't know his heart,'
as the sayin' is, an' it's the same way with women--anyway, it's the same
way with Mis' Beckman. You can know her face a mile off, but yuh never
know who she's goin' t' rake over the coals next. As the sayin' is:
'The tongue of a woman, at last it biteth like a serpent an' it stingeth
like an addle,' an' I guess it's so. Anyway, Mis' Beckman's does. I do
b'lieve on my soul--what's the matter, Dell? What yuh laughin' at?"

The Little Doctor was past speech for the moment, and the Countess stood
up and looked curiously around her. It never occurred to her that she
might be the cause of that convulsive outburst.

"Oh--he--never mind--he's gone, now."

"Who's gone?" persisted the Countess.

"What kinds of cake do you think we ought to have?" asked the Little
Doctor, diplomatically.

The Countess sank to her knees and dipped a handful of amber, jelly-like
soap from a tin butter can.

"Well, I don't know. I s'pose folks will look for something fancy,
seein' you're givin' the dance. Mis' Beckman sets herself up as a