It's what the magazines call the
revolt of womanhood. Warm underwear in the cedar chest in the spare
room when you need it. With love, HELEN.
I left the note on his desk.
Mrs. McNally was bending over the tubs in the laundry. I could see
only the broad arch of her back and hear the vigorous zzzzzzz of her
rubbing. She straightened up at my call.
"Mrs. McNally," I said, "I'm going away for a little trip. You'd
better let the washing go until this afternoon and get Andrew's
dinner for him. He'll be back about twelve-thirty. It's half-past
ten now. You tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins at Locust
Farm."
Mrs. McNally is a brawny, slow-witted Swede. "All right Mis'
McGill," she said. "You be back to denner?"
"No, I'm not coming back for a month," I said. "I'm going away for
a trip. I want you to send Rosie over here every day to do the
housework while I'm away. You can arrange with Mr. McGill about
that. I've got to hurry now."
Mrs. McNally's honest eyes, as blue as Copenhagen china, gazing
through the window in perplexity, fell upon the travelling Parnassus
and Mr.
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