For the present, her small
dissatisfaction vanished with the crabs.
"This coffee has been made ten minutes," grumbled the getter-of-
breakfast with a properly martyred air. "Whatever were you doing?"
"Thinking."
"It isn't done. Not before breakfast."
"I was thinking," fibbed Desire, "that I have never been so spoiled
in my life and that it can't go on. My domestic conscience is
beginning to murmur. As soon as we are at home, you will be expected
to stay in bed until you smell the coffee coming up the stairs."
"Aunt Caroline," said the professor, "does not believe in coffee for
breakfast, except on Sunday."
"I do."
"Eh? Oh--I see. Well, I'll put my money on you. Only I hope you
aren't really set on making it yourself. Because the cook would
leave.'"
"Good gracious! Do we have a cook?"
"We do. At least, we did. Also a maid. But maids, I understand, are
greatly diminished. There appear to have been tragedies in
Bainbridge. Have you eaten sufficient bacon to listen calmly to an
extract from Aunt Caroline's last? Sit tight, then--
"'As to what the world is coming to in the matter of domestic
service,'" writes Aunt Caroline, "I do not know. I do not wish to
worry you, Benis, but as you will be marrying some day, in spite of
that silly doctor of yours who insists that it's not to be thought
of, you may as well be conversant with the situation. To put it
briefly--/ have been without competent help for two weeks.
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