She is equally dissatisfied whether it be drawn from a well, or
whether it be water that has fallen from heaven and been stored in
tanks. She has no faith in Nature's water. A woman never believes
that water can be good that does not come from a water-works. Her
idea appears to be that the Company makes it fresh every morning from
some old family recipe.
If you do succeed in reconciling her to the water, then she feels
sure that the chimneys smoke; they look as if they smoked. Why--as
you tell her--the chimneys are the best part of the house. You take
her outside and make her look at them. They are genuine sixteenth-
century chimneys, with carving on them. They couldn't smoke. They
wouldn't do anything so inartistic. She says she only hopes you are
right, and suggests cowls, if they do.
After that she wants to see the kitchen--where's the kitchen? You
don't know where it is. You didn't bother about the kitchen. There
must be a kitchen, of course. You proceed to search for the kitchen.
When you find it she is worried because it is the opposite end of the
house to the dining-room. You point out to her the advantage of
being away from the smell of the cooking. At that she gets personal:
tells you that you are the first to grumble when the dinner is cold;
and in her madness accuses the whole male sex of being impractical.
The mere sight of an empty house makes a woman fretful.
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