“I can’t imagine,” says I.
“Because,” said Miss Berrith, “she’s a ready maid before she’s engaged and a maid to order afterward.”
“Aha!” I cried triumphantly, “you admit the inferiority of the wife!”
“I haven’t said whom she is made to order,” said Miss Berrith.
For a moment I felt as I do after trying to recover a wet cake of soap before it reaches the carpet.
“Of course,” I ventured, “our ideas upon marriage are bound to be very dissimilar. I have the masculine point of view.”
Miss Berrith looked at me curiously.
“A friend of my father,” she observed slowly, “once referred to the violet as a ‘thundering pretty flower.’”
“I’m afraid that I don’t see the connection,” said I uneasily.
“Only,” answered Miss Berrith, “that in relation to at least one very sweet and tender
