letters at seven, bath at eight, straightened out that squabble
between Swann and the cook,--I think Paul is still simmering, but
that's neither here nor there!--then I went down with the vet to see
the mare. Joe'll never forgive me if I've really broken the creature's
knees!--then I telephoned mother, and saw Harriet's violin man, and
talked to that Italian Joe sent up to clean the oils,--he's in the
gallery now, and--let's see--"

"Italian lesson," Margaret prompted.

"Italian lesson," the other echoed, "and then came in here to sign
my cheques."

"You're so executive, Harriet!" said Mrs. Crawford, languidly.

"Apropos of Swann," Margaret said, "he confided to me that he has
seven children--on a little farm down on Long Island."

"The butler--oh, I dare say!" Mrs. Watson agreed. "They can,
because they've no standard to maintain--seven, or seventeen--
the only difference in expense is the actual amount of bread
and butter consumed."

"It's too bad," said Mrs. Crawford. "But you've got to handle the
question sanely and reasonably, like any other. Now, I love children,"
she went on. "I'm perfectly crazy about my sister's little girl. She's
eleven now, and the cutest thing alive. But when I think of all
Mabel's been through, since she was born,--I realize that it's a
little too much to expect of any woman. Now, look at us,--there are
thousands of people fixed as we are. We're in an apartment hotel, with