Roger spent the morning in doing a little housecleaning, in preparation for his wife’s return. He was a trifle abashed to find how many mingled crumbs and tobacco cinders had accumulated on the dining room rug. He cooked himself a modest lunch of lamb chops and baked potatoes, and was pleased by an epigram concerning food that came into his mind. “It’s not the food you dream about that matters,” he said to himself; “it’s the vittles that walk right in and become a member of the family.” He felt that this needed a little polishing and rephrasing, but that there was a germ of wit in it. He had a habit of encountering ideas at his solitary meals.
After this, he was busy at the sink scrubbing the dishes, when he was surprised by feeling two very competent arms surround him, and a pink gingham apron was thrown over his head. “Mifflin,” said his wife, “how many times have I told you to put on an apron when you wash up!”
They greeted each other with the hearty, affectionate simplicity of those congenially wedded in middle age. Helen Mifflin was a buxom, healthy creature, rich in good sense and good humour, well nourished both in mind and body. She kissed Roger’s bald head, tied the apron around his shrimpish person, and sat down on a kitchen chair to watch him finish wiping the china. Her cheeks were cool and ruddy from the keen air, her face lit with the tranquil satisfaction of those who have sojourned in the comfortable city of Boston.
“Well, my dear,” said Roger, “this makes it a real Thanksgiving. You look as plump and full of matter as The Home Book of Verse.”
“I’ve had a stunning time,” she said, patting Bock who stood at her knee, imbibing the familiar and mysterious fragrance by which dogs identify their human friends. “I haven’t even heard of a book for three weeks. I did stop in at the Old Angle Book Shop yesterday, just to say hullo to Joe Jillings. He says all booksellers are crazy, but that you are the craziest of the lot. He wants to know if you’re bankrupt yet.”
Roger’s slate-blue eyes twinkled. He hung up a cup in the china closet and lit his pipe before replying.
“What did you say?”
“I said that our shop was haunted, and mustn’t be supposed to come under the usual conditions of the trade.”
“Bully for you! And what did Joe say to that?”
“ ‘Haunted by the nuts!’ ”
“Well,” said Roger, “when literature goes bankrupt I’m willing to go with it. Not till then. But by the way, we’re going to be haunted by a beauteous damsel pretty soon. You remember my telling you that Mr. Chapman wants to send his daughter to work in the shop? Well, here’s a letter I had from him this morning.”
He rummaged in his pocket, and produced the following, which Mrs. Mifflin read:
Dear Mr. Mifflin,
I am so delighted that you and Mrs. Mifflin are willing to try the experiment of taking my daughter as an apprentice. Titania is really a very charming girl, and if only we can get some of the “finishing school” nonsense out of her head she will make a fine woman. She has had (it was my fault, not hers) the disadvantage of being brought up, or rather brought down, by having every possible want and whim gratified. Out of kindness for herself and her future husband, if she should have one, I want her to learn a little about earning a living. She is nearly nineteen, and I told her if she would try the bookshop job for a while I would take her to Europe for a year afterward.
As I explained to you, I want her to think she is really earning her way. Of course I don’t want the routine to be too hard for her, but I do want her to get some idea of what it means to face life on one’s own. If you will pay her ten dollars a week as a beginner, and deduct her board from that, I will pay you twenty dollars a week, privately, for your responsibility in caring for her and keeping your and Mrs. Mifflin’s friendly eyes on her. I’m coming round to the Corn Cob meeting tomorrow night, and we can make the final arrangements.
Luckily, she is very fond of books, and I really think she is looking forward to the adventure with much anticipation. I overheard her saying to one of her friends yesterday that she was going to do some “literary work” this winter. That’s the kind of nonsense I want her to outgrow. When I hear her say that she’s got a job in a bookstore, I’ll know she’s cured.
“Well?” said Roger, as Mrs. Mifflin made no comment. “Don’t you think it will be rather interesting to get a naive young girl’s reactions toward the problems of our tranquil existence?”
“Roger, you blessed innocent!” cried his wife. “Life will no longer be tranquil with a girl of nineteen round the place. You may fool yourself, but you can’t fool me. A girl of nineteen doesn’t react toward things. She explodes. Things don’t ‘react’ anywhere but in Boston and in chemical laboratories. I suppose you know you’re taking a human bombshell into the arsenal?”
Roger looked dubious. “I remember something in Weir of Hermiston about a girl being ‘an explosive engine,’ ” he said. “But I don’t see that she can do any very great harm round here. We’re both pretty well proof against shell shock. The worst that could happen would be if she got hold of my private copy of Fireside Conversation in
