ed up by somebody that I don't care about, that I don't see, that
I'd just as soon have do the tiresome things as not. I want somebody
to do it, and me to feel all right about _having_ them do it!"

"Well, for goodness' sakes!" Judith was reduced again to mere wonder.

Professor and Mrs. Marshall stepped into the kitchen for a moment to
see that everything was progressing smoothly. The professor had his
viola in his hand and was plucking softly at the strings, a pleasant,
tranquil anticipation of harmony on his face. He looked affectionately
at his daughters and thought what dear good children they were. Judith
appealed to her parents: "Sylvia's as crazy as a loon. She says she
wants somebody to do her work for her, and yet she wants to feel all
right about shirking it!"

Mrs. Marshall did not follow, and did not care. "What?" she said
indifferently, tasting the chicken-salad in the big yellow bowl, and,
with an expression of serious consideration, adding a little more salt
to it.

But Sylvia's father understood, "What you want to remember, daughter,"
he said, addressing himself to his oldest child with a fond certainty
of her quick apprehension, "is that fine saying of Emerson, 'What will
you have, quoth--'" A raw-boned assistant appeared in the doorway.
"Everybody here, I guess, Perfesser," he said.

When the girls were alone again, Sylvia stole a look at Judith and
broke into noiseless giggles. She laughed till the tears ran down her
cheeks and she had to stop work and go to the kitchen sink to wash
her face and take a drink of water. "You never do what you say you're
going to," said Judith, as gravely alien to this mood as to the other.
"I thought you said you'd scream."

"I _am_ screaming," said Sylvia, wiping her eyes again.

They were very familiar with the work of preparing the simple
"refreshments" for University gatherings. Their mother always
provided exactly the same viands, and long practice had made them
letter-perfect in the moves to be made. When they had finished
portioning off the lettuce-leaves and salad on the plates, they
swiftly set each one on a fresh crepe-paper napkin. Sylvia professed
an undying hatred for paper napkins. "I don't see why," said Judith.
"They're so much less bother than the other kind when you're only
going to use them once, this way." "That's it," asserted Sylvia;
"that's the very stingy, economical thing about them I hate, their
_not_ being a bother! I'd like to use bi