we're going to have ourselves," and then at the last moment bring home things like lobsters and mushrooms, and want wine sauces whose recipes were so complicated they made Lizzie mutter under her breath and slam the oven door so the plaster nearly fell from the ceiling. She wasn't cross in front of Joe, of course. Servants never were. She took it out on Kate. And Joe would only say, magnificently: "Is the house to be run to suit us, or to suit Miss Lizzie Kelly? I merely ask for information." The worry of not being pretty, like that Mrs. Martine, with her old black eyelashes!
And here was Joe, thinking of her, loving her, taking her out to drive, planning a beautiful home for her—she was ashamed of herself. How could he love her? It was a miracle. Everything was miraculous to-day; a burning bush of orange and vermilion berries with a sheen of purple on them, burning against the passionate sky, a little blue-green beetle that lit on her sleeve, O'Leary's old Bessie, flinging her hoofs about, carrying them home again. Joe.
