There is some weakness in our American training of girls.  Visibly and certainly the woman who marries a man engages herself to conduct his household—­to relieve him of all troubles there—­because he is the bread-winner.  But very few girls seem trained with such idea, though all girls look forward to a marriage and such mutually helpful compact between two human beings.  It is, of course, the fault of a social growth, the fault of mothers, the fault of many conditions.  And Jean did not know how to cook!  She was a woman of keen intelligence, of all sweetness and all faithfulness, yet she found herself almost helpless when she became the chatelaine of the castle where Grant was to come to dinner.

It is needless to tell of all that happened.  The woman was adroit in the engagement of domestics, and there were dinners certainly, and, possibly, good ones, but the knowingness of it all was wanting.  He felt it, and wondered a little, but did not fret.  He knew the woman.  One evening they were together, after dinner again, just as they had been when he told her he would take her to the woods, and she lay coiled up upon a divan, while he sat beside her.  It was their after-dinner way.  She spoke up abruptly and very bravely: 

“Grant, I’m a humbug.”

“Certainly, dear; what of it?”

“I mean—­and it’s something serious—­I really am, you know, and I want to tell you.”

“Go ahead, midget.”

She did not seem altogether reassured, but plunged in gallantly: 

“You thought I would be a good wife to you.  You thought I knew everything a woman should know who agreed to live together with the man she loved, and make the most of life.  But, Grant, I was and am really a humbug!  I don’t know how to manage a house; I have to leave it to the servants, and I can see enough, at least, to know that it isn’t what it should be.  There are a thousand little fancies of yours I don’t know how to gratify, and I want to do it so, Grant!  What shall I do?”

He responded by saying that he was very fond of his little Dora Copperfield and that he would buy her a poodle dog.  He added, though, that she mustn’t die—­he needed her!

There was a laugh in his eyes, and he was but the tyrant man enjoying the discomfort of the one being to him; but when she curled a little closer and looked up in earnestness, he relented.

“That is nothing, dear,” he said, “save that I’m afraid you have a little work ahead.  Yes, it is right that you should know what you do not.  You must learn.  It is nothing for a clever woman, such as the one I have gained.  I look to you, love, for the home and all the sweetness of it, and I wouldn’t do that if I did not think that in the end there would be all pride and comfort for you.  Down East they call this or that woman ‘house-proud.’  I want you to be ‘house-proud.’  No wife who is that but is doing very much for all about her, and I won’t say any more, except that you must let me help you.”