tal excuse being that women understand each
other and that a man is unnecessary, under the circumstances. I had
some misgivings on the subject of Letitia and _svensk_, but the
universal language of femininity is not without its uses. I devoutly
hoped that Letitia would be able to come to terms, as the mere idea of a
cook who couldn't excoriate us in English was, at that moment,
delightful. At the end of a quarter of an hour I strolled back to the
drawing-room. Letitia was smiling and the hand-maiden sat grim and
uninspired.

"I've engaged her, Archie," said Letitia. "She knows nothing, as she has
told me in the few words of English that she has picked up, but--you
remember what Aunt Julia said about a clean slate."

I gazed at the maiden, and reflected that while the term "slate" might
be perfectly correct, the adjective seemed a bit over-enthusiastic. She
was decidely soiled, this quintessence of a quintette of advertisements.
I said nothing, anxious not to dampen Letitia's elation.

"She has no references," continued my wife, "as she has never been out
before. She is just a simple little Stockholm girl. I like her face
immensely, Archie--immensely. She is willing to begin at once, which
shows that she is eager, and consequently likely to suit us. Wait for
me, Archie, while I take her to the kitchen. _Kom_, Gerda."

Exactly why Letitia couldn't say "Come, Gerda," seemed strange. She
probably thought that _Kom_ must be Swedish, and that it sounded well.
She certainly invented _Kom_ on the spur of the Scandinavian moment, and
I learned afterward that it was correct. My inspired Letitia! Still, in
spite of all, my opinion is that "Come, Gerda," would have done just as
well.

"Isn't it delightful?" cried Letitia, when she joined me later. "I am
really enthusiastic at the idea of a Swedish girl. I adore Scandinavia,
Archie. It always makes me think of Ibsen. Perhaps Gerda Lyberg--that's
her name--will be as interesting as Hedda Gabler, and Mrs. Alving, and
Nora, and all those lovely complex Ibsen creatures."

"They were Norwegians, dear," I said gently, anxious not to shatter
illusions; "the Ibsen plays deal with Christiania, not with Stockholm."

"But they are so near," declared Letitia, amiable and seraphic once
more. "Somehow or other, I invariably mix up Norway and Sweden and
Denmark. I know I shall always look upon Gerda as an Ibsen girl, who has
come here to 'live her life,' or 'work out her inheritance.' Perha