“Dad, darling, that isn’t practical!  I’d love it for about two days.  Then we’d settle right down to washing dishes, and setting tables, and dusting and sweeping, and wiping up floors—­horrors, horrors, horrors!”

She left her perch to take in turn an arm of her father’s chair.

“Well, what’s the solution, pussy?” asked Kane Salisbury, keenly appreciative of the nearness of her youth and beauty.

“It isn’t that,” said Sandy decidedly.  “Of course,” she pursued, “the Gregorys get along without a maid, and use a fireless cooker, and drink cereal coffee, but admit, darling, that you’d rather have me useless and frivolous as I am!—­than Gertrude or Florence or Winifred Gregory!  Why, when Floss was married, Dad, Gertrude played the piano, for music, and for refreshments they had raspberry ice-cream and chocolate layer cake!”

“Well, I like chocolate layer cake,” observed her father mildly.  “I thought that was a very pretty wedding; the sisters in their light dresses—­”

“Dimity dresses at a wedding!” Alexandra reproached him, round-eyed.  “And they are so boisterously proud of the fact that they live on their father’s salary,” she went on, arranging her own father’s hair fastidiously; “it’s positively offensive the way they bounce up to change plates and tell you how to make the neck of mutton appetizing, or the heart of a cow, or whatever it is!  And their father pushes the chairs back, Dad, and helps roll up the napkins—­ I’d die if you ever tried it!”

“But they all work, too, don’t they?”

“Work?  Of course they work!  And every cent of it goes into the bank.  Winnie and Florence are buying gas shares, and Gertrude means to have a year’s study in Europe, if you please!”

“That doesn’t sound very terrible,” said Kane Salisbury, smiling.  But some related thought darkened his eyes a moment later.  “You wouldn’t have much gas stock if I was taken, Pussy,” said he.

“No, darling, and let that be a lesson to you not to die!” his daughter said blithely.  “But I could work, Dad,” she added more seriously, “if Mother didn’t mind so awfully.  Not in the kitchen, but somewhere.  I’d love to work in a settlement house.”

“Now, there you modern girls are,” her father said.  “Can’t bear to clear away the dinner plates in your own houses, yet you’ll cheerfully suggest going to live in the filthiest parts of the city, working, as no servant is ever expected to work, for people you don’t know!”

“I know it’s absurd,” Sandy agreed, smiling.  Her answer was ready somewhere in her mind, but she could not quite find it.  “But, you see, that’s a new problem,” she presently offered, “that’s ours to-day, just as managing your house was Mother’s when she married you.  Circumstances have changed.  I couldn’t ever take up the kitchen question just as it presents itself to Mother.  I—­people my age don’t believe in a servant class.  They just believe in a division of labor, all dignified.  If some girl I knew, Grace or Betty, say, came into our kitchen—­and that reminds me!” she broke off suddenly.