By Alan Dale
There was a ring at the front door-bell. Letitia， wrought-up，nervously clutched my arm. For a moment a sort of paralysisseized me. Then， alertly as a young calf， I bounded toward thedoor， hope aroused， and expectation keen. It was rather darkin the outside hall， and I could not quite perceive the natureof our visitor. But I soon gladly realized that it was somethingfeminine， and as I held the door open， a thin， small， soiledwisp of a woman glided in and smiled at me.
“Talar ni svensk？” she asked， but I had no idea what shemeant. She may have been impertinent， or even rude， orperhaps improper， but she looked as though she might be adomestic， and I led her gently， reverently， to Letitia in thedrawing-room. I smiled back at her， in a wild endeavor to besympathetic. I would have anointed her， or bathed her feet， orplied her with figs and dates， or have done anything that anynationality craves as a welcome. As the front door closed Iheaved a sigh of relief. Here was probably the quintessence offive advertisements. Out of the mountain crept a mouse， andquite a little mouse， too！
“Talar ni svensk？” proved to be nothing more outrageousthan “Do you speak Swedish？” My astute little wife discoveredthis intuitively. I left them together， my mental excusebeing that women understand each other and that a man isunnecessary， under the circum stances. I had some misgivingson the subject of Letitia and svensk， but the universal languageof femininity is not without its uses. I devoutly hoped thatLetitia would be able to come to terms， as the mere ideaof a cook who couldn’t excoriate us in English was， at thatmoment， delightful. At the end of a quarter of an hour I strolledback to the drawing-room. Letitia was smiling and the handmaidensat grim and uninspired.
“I’ve engaged her， Archie，” said Letitia. “She knows nothing，as she has told me in the few words of English that she haspicked up， but—you remember what Aunt Julia said about aclean slate.”
I gazed at the maiden， and reflected that while the term“slate” might be perfectly correct， the adjective seemed a bitover-enthusiastic. She was decidely soiled， this quintessenceof a quintette of advertisements. I said nothing， anxious not todampen Letitia’s elation.
“She has no references，” continued my wife， “as she hasnever been out before. She is just a simple little Stockholmgirl. I like her face immensely， Archie—immensely. She iswilling to begin at once， which shows that she is eager， andconsequently likely to suit us. Wait for me， Archie， while I takeher to the kitchen. Kom， Gerda.”
Exactly why Letitia couldn’t say “Come， Gerda，” seemedstrange. She probably thought that Kom must be Swedish， andthat it sounded well. She certainly invented Kom on the spur ofthe Scandinavian moment， and I learned afterward that it wascorrect. My inspired Letitia！ Still， in spite of all， my opinion isthat “Come， Gerda，” would have done just as well.
“Isn’t it delightful？” cried Letitia， when she joined me later.
“I am really enthusiastic at the idea of a Swedish girl. I adoreScandinavia， Archie. It always makes me think of Ibsen.
Perhaps Gerda Lyberg—that’s her name—will be as interestingas Hedda Gabler， and Mrs. Alving， and Nora， and all thoselovely complex Ibsen creatures.”
“They were Norwegians， dear，” I said gently， anxious notto shatter illusions； “the Ibsen plays deal with Christiania， notwith Stockholm.”
“But they are so near，” declared Letitia， amiable andseraphic once more. “Somehow or other， I invariably mix upNorway and Sweden and Denmark. I know I shall alwayslook upon Gerda as an Ibsen girl， who has come here to ‘liveher life，’ or ‘work out her inheritance.’ Perhaps， dear， she hassome interesting internal disease， or a maggoty brain. Don’tyou think， Archie， that the Ibsen inheritances are always mostfascinating？ A bit morbid， but surely fascinating.”
“I prefer a healthy cook， Letitia，” I said meditatively， “somebodywilling to interest herself in our inheritance， rather than in herown.”
“I don’t mind what you say now，” she pouted， “I am not tobe put down by clamor. We really have a cook at last， and Ifeel more lenient toward you， Archie. Of course I was onlyjoking when I suggested the Ibsen diseases. Gerda Lyberg mayhave inherited from her ancestors something quite nice andattractive.”
“Then you mustn’t look upon her as Ibsen， Letitia，” I protested.
“The Ibsen people never inherit nice things. Their ancestorsalways bequeath nasty ones. That is where their consistencycomes in. They are receptacles for horrors. Personally， if You’llexcuse my flippancy， I prefer Norwegian anchovies to Norwegianheroines. It is a mere matter of opinion.”
“I’m ashamed of you，” retorted Letitia defiantly. “You talklike some of the wretchedly frivolous criticisms， so called， thatmen like Acton Davies and Alan Dale inflict upon the longsufferingpublic. They never amuse me. Ibsen may make hisheroines the recipients of ugly legacies， but he has never yetcursed them with the odious incubus known as ‘a sense ofhumor.’ The people with a sense of humor have somethingin their brains worse than maggots. We’ll drop the subject，Archie. I’m going to learn Swedish. Before Gerda Lyberghas been with us a month I intend to be able to talk fluently.
It will be most useful. Next time we go to Europe We’ll takein Sweden， and I’ll do the piloting. I am going to buy someSwedish books， and study. Won’t it be jolly？ And just thinkhow melancholy we were this morning， you and I， lookingout of that window， and trying to materialize cooks. Wasn’t itfunny， Archie？ What amusing experiences we shall be able tochronicle， later on！”