Lizzie, who happened to be the Salisbury's one servant at the time, waswasteful. It was almost her only fault, in Mrs. Salisbury's eyes, forsuch trifles as her habit of becoming excited and "saucy," in momentsof domestic stress, or to ask boldly for other holidays than heralternate Sunday and Thursday afternoons, or to resent at all times theintrusion of any person, even her mistress, into her immaculatekitchen, might have been overlooked. Mrs. Salisbury had been keepinghouse in a suburban town for twenty years; she was not considered anexacting mistress. She was perfectly willing to forgive Lizzie what wassaid in the hurried hours before the company dinner or impromptu lunch,and to let Lizzie slip out for a walk with her sister in the evening,and to keep out of the kitchen herself as much as was possible. So muchmight be conceded to a girl who was honest and clean, industrious,respectable, and a fair cook.
But the wastefulness was a serious matter. Mrs. Salisbury was a carefuland an experienced manager; she resented waste; indeed, she could notafford to tolerate it. She liked to go into the kitchen herself everymorning, to eye the contents of icebox and pantry, and decide uponneeded stores. Enough butter, enough cold meat for dinner, enough milkfor a nourishing soup, eggs and salad for luncheon—what about potatoes?
Lizzie deliberately frustrated this house-wifely ambition. She flouncedand muttered when other hands than her own were laid upon her icebox.She turned on rushing faucets, rattled dishes in her pan. Yet Mrs.Salisbury felt that she must personally superintend these matters,because Lizzie was so wasteful. The girl had not been three months inthe Salisbury family before all bills for supplies soared alarmingly.
This was all wrong. Mrs. Salisbury fretted over it a few weeks, thenconfided her concern to her husband. But Kane Salisbury would notlisten to the details. He scowled at the introduction of the topic,glanced restlessly at his paper, murmured that Lizzie might be "fired";and, when Mrs. Salisbury had resolutely bottled up her seethingdiscontent inside of herself, she sometimes heard him murmuring,"Bad—bad—management" as he sat chewing his pipe-stem on the darkporch or beside the fire.
Alexandra, the eighteen-year-old daughter of the house, was equallyincurious and unreasonable about domestic details.
"But, honestly, Mother, you know you're afraid of Lizzie, and she knowsit," Alexandra would declare gaily; "I can't tell you how I'd manageher, because she's not my servant, but I know I would do something!"
Beauty and intelligence gave Alexandra, even at eighteen, a certainserene poise and self-reliance that lifted her above the old-fashionedtopics of "trouble with girls," and housekeeping, and marketing.Alexandra touched these subjects under the titles of "budgets,""domestic science," and "efficiency." Neither she nor her motherrecognized the old, homely subjects under their new names, and so thedaughter felt a lack of interest, and the mother a lack of sympathy,that kept them from understanding each other. Alexandra, ready to meetand conquer all the troubles of