“Can you bake?”

“I have baked cakes.”

“How about bread and biscuits?”

“I’ve never tried them.”

“Umph!”

“I should be glad to learn, if you would be good enough to teach me.”

“I have little time for teaching,” said Gertie ungraciously.  “But you can watch how I do it and maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Can you wash and iron?” said Gertie while she was kneading her dough.

“Of course I can iron and I can wash lace.”

“People round here wear more flannel shirts than lace.  I suppose you never washed any flannels?”

“No, never.”

“Have you ever done any scrubbing?”

“Of course not.”  Nora was beginning to find this catechism a little trying.

“Not work for a lady, I suppose.  Just what does a companion do?”

“It depends.  She does whatever her employer requires; reads aloud, acts as secretary, goes riding and shopping with the lady she lives with, arranges the flowers, everything of that sort.”

“Oh.  But nothing really useful.”

Nora gave an angry laugh.  “It’s clear that some people consider a companion’s work useful, since they employ them.”

“You take pay for it; after all, it’s much the same as being a servant.”

“It’s not at all the same.”

“Ed tells me that sometimes when Miss Wickers, Wickham—­whatever her name was——­”

“Miss Wickham.”

“That when Miss Wickham had company for dinner, you had to have your dinner alone.”

“That is true.”

“Then she considered you sort of a servant,” said Gertie triumphantly.  Nora was silent.  Gertie having cut her dough into small round pieces with a tin cutter and put them into her pans, went toward the oven.

“And yet you object to eating at the same table with the hired men.”

Having satisfied herself that the oven was at the proper heat, she shut the door with a bang.

“I’ve said nothing about it.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“But I most certainly do object to it and I can’t for the life of me see the necessity of it.”

“I was what you call a servant for years; I suppose you object to eating at the table with me.”

“What perfect nonsense!  It’s not at all the same thing.  You’re my brother’s wife and the mistress of his house.”

“Yes, I’m the mistress of the house all right,” said Gertie grimly.

“Frank Taylor’s an uncommonly handsome man, isn’t he?”

“I really haven’t noticed.”

“What perfect nonsense!” mimicked Gertie.  “Of course you’ve noticed.  Any woman would notice him.”

“Then I must be different from other women.”

“Oh, no, you’re not; you only think you are.  At bottom women are all alike, take it from me, and I’ve known a few.”

“If I can be of no help to you here, I think I’ll go and unpack my box,” said Nora.  She felt as if she had borne all she possibly could.