When a Man Marries (Chapter 8, page 2 of 8)


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Chapter 8

To come down to earth: here we are, six women and five men, including
a policeman, not a servant in the house, and no one who knows how to do
anything. They are really immensely interesting, these people; they
all know each other very well, and it is "Jimmy" here, and "Dal"
there--Dallas Brown, who went to India with me, you remember my speaking
of him--and they are good natured, too, except at meal times. The little
hostess, Mrs. Wilson, took over the cooking, and although luncheon was
better than breakfast, the food still leaves much to the imagination.

I wish you could see this Mrs. Wilson, Hal. You would change a whole lot
of your ideas. She is a thoroughbred, sure enough, and of course some
of her beauty is the result of the exquisite care about which you and
I--still from our Andean pinnacle--used to rant. But the fact is, she is
more than that. She has fire, and pluck, no end. If you could have seen
her this morning, standing in front of a cold kitchen range, determined
to conquer it, and had seen the tilt of her chin when I offered to take
over the cooking--you needn't grin; I can cook, and you know it--you
would understand what I mean. It was so clear that she was paralyzed
with fright at the idea of getting breakfast, and equally clear that
she meant to do it. By the way, I have learned that her name was McNair
before she married this would-be artist, Wilson, and that she is a
daughter of the McNair who financed the Callao branch!

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