Did Mrs. Ravis want another cuppa tea? No?
No more tea? Well, she'd pass the bread. Some bread, Master Howard? Nice
French bread, he always liked that. Some more preserved pears, Miss
Ravis? Yes, miss, she'd get them right away; they were just over here on
the sideboard. Yes, here they were. No more? Now she'd go and put them
back. And at last when she had set the nerves of all of them in a
jangle, was dismissed to the kitchen and retired with a gasp of
unspeakable relief.
Somewhat later in the evening young Haight was alone with Turner, and
their conversation had taken a very unusual and personal turn. All at
once Turner exclaimed:
"I often wonder what good I am in the world to anybody. I don't _know_ a
thing, I can't _do_ a thing. I couldn't cook the plainest kind of a meal
to _save_ me, and it took me all of two hours yesterday to do just a
little buttonhole stitching. I'm not good for anything. I'm not a help
to anybody."
Young Haight looked into the blue flame of the gas-log, almost the only
modern innovation throughout the entire house, and was silent for a
moment; then he leaned his elbows on his knees and, still looking at the
flame, replied:
"I don't know about that.
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