like her. They were two people who had to rule those about them, two people who were always right. She knew that he understood her contempt for Mabelle as a woman and as a housekeeper; the fact that Mabelle was his wife made little difference.
"You'll understand what I mean, Elmer. You know that Mabelle doesn't keep house well. You know she's . . . well, lazy and untidy. And that is why she's bad for Naomi. Naomi wasn't meant for a wife and mother, I'm afraid. She's a miserable failure at it. I'm trying to put character into her, to make something of her . . . but I can't, if Mabelle's always there. She undoes all I can do."
He unclasped his hands, and, after a moment, said, "Yes, I think I know what you mean. Besides, Mabelle ought to be at home looking after her own house a little. You'd think that she couldn't bear the sight of it. She's always gadding." He turned away. "She's coming now. I'll speak to her, and if she still bothers you let me know."
Mabelle came through the swinging beaded portières. "It's too bad Naomi couldn't come, too, for lunch. It's a pity she feels like she does about being seen in the street. I have tried to make her sensible about it. Why, when I was carrying Ethel . . ."
Both of them gave her black looks, but Mabelle, seating herself at once in the rocking-chair, rattled on without noticing.
The inspiration came to Emma at the evening service, when she was struck again by the quality of sym-
