They tried another Norwegian, then a Polack, then a Scandinavian.  Then they had a German man and wife for a week, a couple who asserted that they would work, without pay, for a good home.  This was a most uncomfortable experience, unsuccessful from the first instant.  Then came a low-voiced, good-natured South American negress, Marthe, not much of a cook, but willing and strong.

July was mercilessly hot that year, thirty-one burning days of sunshine.  Mrs. Salisbury was not a very strong woman, and she had a great many visitors to entertain.  She kept Marthe, because the colored woman did not resent constant supervision, and an almost hourly change of plans.  Mrs. Salisbury did almost all of the cooking herself, fussing for hours in the hot kitchen over the cold meats and salads and ices that formed the little informal cold suppers to which the Salisburys loved to ask their friends on Saturday and Sunday nights.

Alexandra helped fitfully.  She would put her pretty head into the kitchen doorway, perhaps to find her mother icing cake.

“Listen, Mother; I’m going over to Con’s.  She’s got that new serve down to a fine point!  And I’ve done the boys’ room and the guest room; it’s all ready for the Cutters.  And I put towels and soap in the bathroom, only you’ll have to have Marthe wipe up the floor and the tub.”

“You’re a darling child,” the mother would say gratefully.

“Darling nothing!” And Sandy, with her protest, would lay a cool cheek against her mother’s hot one.  “Do you have to stay out here, Mother?” she would ask resentfully.  “Can’t the Culled Lady do this?”

“Well, I left her to watch it, and it burned,” Mrs. Salisbury would say, “so now it has to be pared and frosted.  Such a bother!  But this is the very last thing, dear.  You run along; I’ll be out of here in two minutes!”

But it was always something more than two minutes.  Sometimes even Kane Salisbury was led to protest.

“Can’t we eat less, dear?  Or differently?  Isn’t there some simple way of managing this week-end supper business?  Now, Brewer—­Brewer manages it awfully well.  He has his man set out a big cold roast or two, cheese, and coffee, and a bowlful of salad, and beer.  He’ll get a fruit pie from the club sometimes, or pastries, or a pot of marmalade—­”

“Yes, indeed, we must try to simplify,” Mrs. Salisbury would agree brightly.  But after such a conversation as this she would go over her accounts very soberly indeed.  “Roasts—­cheeses—­fruit pies!” she would say bitterly to herself.  “Why is it that a man will spend as much on a single lunch for his friends as a woman is supposed to spend on her table for a whole week, and then ask her what on earth she has done with her money!”

“Kane, I wish you would go over my accounts,” she said one evening, in desperation.  “Just suggest where you would cut down!”

Mr. Salisbury ran his eye carelessly over the pages of the little ledger.