``Perhaps it would be hard to find a more utterly unreasonable, irritable, irresponsible creature than a hungry man.'' With a long sigh she began to read; and not until some minutes later did she close the book, turn off the light, and steal back to bed.
During the next three days, until after the funeral at the shabby little South Boston house, Eliza spent only about half of each day at the Strata. This, much to her distress, left many of the household tasks for her young mistress to perform. Billy, however, attacked each new duty with a feverish eagerness that seemed to make the performance of it very like some glad penance done for past misdeeds. And when--on the day after they had laid the old servant in his last resting place--a despairing message came from Eliza to the effect that now her mother was very ill, and would need her care, Billy promptly told Eliza to stay as long as was necessary; that they could get along all right without her.
``But, Billy, what _are_ we going to do?''
Bertram demanded, when he heard the news. ``We must have somebody!''
``_I'm_ going to do it.''
``Nonsense! As if you could!'' scoffed Bertram.
Billy lifted her chin.
``Couldn't I, indeed,'' she retorted. ``Do you realize, young man, how much I've done the last three days? How about those muffins you had this morning for breakfast, and that cake last night? And didn't you yourself say that you never ate a better pudding than that date puff yesterday noon?''
Bertram laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
``My dear love, I'm not questioning your _ability_ to do it,'' he soothed quickly. ``Still,'' he added, with a whimsical smile, ``I must remind you that Eliza has been here half the time, and that muffins and date puffs, however delicious, aren't all there is to running a big house like this.
Besides, just be sensible, Billy,'' he went on more seriously, as he noted the rebellious gleam coming into his young wife's eyes; ``you'd know you couldn't do it, if you'd just stop to think. There's the Carletons coming to dinner Monday, and my studio Tea to-morrow, to say nothing of the Symphony and the opera, and the concerts you'd lose because you were too dead tired to go to them.
You know how it was with that concert yesterday afternoon which Alice Greggory wanted you to go to with her.''
``I didn't--want--to go,'' choked Billy, under her breath.
``And there's your music. You haven't done a thing with that for days, yet only last week you told me the publishers were hurrying you for that last song to complete the group.''
``I haven't felt like--writing,'' stammered Billy, still half under her breath.
``Of course you haven't,'' triumphed Bertram.
``You've been too dead tired. And that's just what I say. Billy, you _can't_ do it all yourself!''
``But I want to. I want to--to tend to things,'' faltered Billy, with a half-fearful glance into her husband's face.
Billy was hearing very loudly now that accusing ``If you'd tend to your husband and your home a little more--'' Bertram, however, was not hearing it, evidently. Indeed, he seemed never to have heard it--much less to have spoken it.
`` `Tend to things,' '' he laughed lightly.
``Well, you'll have enough to do to tend to the maid, I fancy. Anyhow, we're going to have one.
I'll just step into one of those--what do you call 'em?--intelligence offices on my way down and send one up,'' he finished, as he gave his wife a good-by kiss.
An hour later Billy, struggling with the broom and the drawing-room carpet, was called to the telephone. It was her husband's voice that came to her.
``Billy, for heaven's sake, take pity on me.
Won't you put on your duds and come and engage your maid yourself?''
``Why, Bertram, what's the matter?''
``Matter? Holy smoke! Well, I've been to three of those intelligence offices--though why they call them that I can't imagine. If ever there was a place utterly devoid of intelligence-but never mind! I've interviewed four fat ladies, two thin ones, and one medium with a wart. I've cheerfully divulged all our family secrets, promised every other half-hour out, and taken oath that our household numbers three adult members, and no more; but I simply _can't_ remember how many handkerchiefs we have in the wash each week. Billy, will you come? Maybe you can do something with them. I'm sure you can!''
``Why, of course I'll come,'' chirped Billy.
``Where shall I meet you?''
Bertram gave the street and number.
``Good! I'll be there,'' promised Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Quite forgetting the broom in the middle of the drawing-room floor, Billy tripped up-stairs to change her dress. On her lips was a gay little song. In her heart was joy.
``I rather guess _now_ I'm tending to my husband and my home!'' she was crowing to herself.
Just as Billy was about to leave the house the telephone bell jangled again.
It was Alice Greggory.
``Billy, dear,'' she called, ``can't you come out? Mr. Arkwright and Mr. Calderwell are here, and they've brought some new music. We want you. Will you come?''
``I can't, dear. Bertram wants me. He's sent for me. I've got some _housewifely_ duties to perform to-day,'' returned Billy, in a voice so curiously triumphant that Alice, at her end of the wires, frowned in puzzled wonder as she turned away from the telephone.
