xpression, he used to take me by the arm and say:

"Now shut your eyes, and I'll get you past this counter."

I have heard of many curious women who do not enjoy housekeeping. I am
free to confess that I do not understand why, unless they started out
in life with the conceited idea that to bend their wonderful brains
upon the silly problem of keeping a house clean and ordering dinners
was beneath women of their possibilities on club essays. I often
wonder if they attacked the proposition of housekeeping with the
intention of seeing how much fun there is in it, of how much pleasure
could be got out of making a home, not merely keeping house, and of
feeding their conceit with the fuel of a determination to keep house
better than any woman of their acquaintance. The simple but
fascinating problem of how to make each room a little prettier than it
was last week, would keep even an ingenious woman busy and interested
in something worth while, and those of us who are sensitive to
impressions would be spared the truly awful sight of certain
incongruous rooms in handsome houses. Oh, if you only knew what people
say about you--you women who "don't like to keep house!"

But I forgot. Most women have no sense of humour, and few husbands
take the intense interest in a home that the Angel does.

America, foreigners claim, is a country almost as homeless as France is
said to be. The French have no word for home in their language, but
they have homes in fact, which is much more worth while. We Americans
have the lovely word "Home," but we haven't as a nation the article in
fact. Americans have houses, but in truth we are a homeless race.
Only the unenlightened will contradict me for saying that, and for the
opinion of the unenlightened I do not care.

I am not sentimental after the fashion of women who send flowers to
murderers, but I am full of pale and sickly theories as to the making
of a home, and I am free to confess that it would give me more pleasure
to hear people say of me, "Mrs. Jardine's husband is the happiest man I
know," than to have them read on a bronze tablet under a statue in the
Louvre, "Faith Jardine, Sculptor." For if more ambitious women would
devote themselves to making one neglected husband happy the public
would be spared weak and indifferent pictures, silly and rank books,
rainy-day skirts in the house, and heaps of other foolishness and bad
taste, most of which at bottom is not the necessity to