"No, I have not had the pleasure of casting my optics upon the
individual of Nancy Ellen's choice," said Agatha primly, "but Miss
Amelia Lang tells me he is a very distinguished person, of quite
superior education in a medical way. I shall call him if I ever
have the misfortune to fall ill again. I hope you will tell Nancy
Ellen that we shall be very pleased to have her bring him to see
us some evening, and if she will let me know a short time ahead I
shall take great pleasure in compounding a cake and freezing
custard."
"Of course I shall tell her, and she will feel a trifle more stuck
up than she does now, if that is possible," laughed Kate in deep
amusement.
She surely was feeling fine. Everything had come out so
splendidly. That was what came of having a little spirit and
standing up for your rights. Also she was bubbling inside while
Agatha talked. Kate wondered how Adam survived it every day. She
glanced at him to see if she could detect any marks of shattered
nerves, then laughed outright.
Adam was the finest physical specimen of a man she knew. He was
good looking also, and spoke as well as the average, better in
fact, for from the day of their marriage, Agatha sat on his lap
each night and said these words: "My beloved, to-day I noted an
error in your speech. It would put a former teacher to much
embarrassment to have this occur in public. In the future will
you not try to remember that you should say, 'have gone,' instead
of 'have went?'" As she talked Agatha rumpled Adam's hair, pulled
off his string tie, upon which she insisted, even when he was
plowing; laid her hard little face against his, and held him tight
with her frail arms, so that Adam being part human as well as part
Bates, held her closely also and said these words: "You bet your
sweet life I will!" And what is more he did. He followed a
furrow the next day, softly muttering over to himself: "Langs
have gone to town. I have gone to work. The birds have gone to
building nests." So Adam seldom said: "have went," or made any
other error in speech that Agatha had once corrected.
As Kate watched him leaning back in his chair, vital, a study in
well-being, the supremest kind of satisfaction on his face, she
noted the flash that lighted his eye when Agatha offered to
"freeze a custard." How like Agatha! Any other woman Kate knew
would have said, "make ice cream." Agatha explained to them that
when they beat up eggs, added milk, sugar, and corn-starch it was
custard. When they used pure cream, sweetened and frozen, it was
iced cream. Personally, she preferred the custard, but she did
not propose to call it custard cream. It was not correct. Why
persist in misstatements and inaccuracies when one knew better?
So Agatha said iced cream when she meant it, and frozen custard,
when custard it was, but every other woman in the neighbourhood,
had she acted as she felt, would have slapped Agatha's face when
she said it: this both Adam and Kate well knew, so it made Kate
laugh despite the fact that she would not have offended Agatha
purposely.