Letitia babbled on like half a dozen brooks， and thinking upa gentle parody， in the shape of， “cooks may come， and menmay go，” I decided to leave my household gods for the breadearningcontest down-town. I could not feel quite as sanguineas Letitia， who seemed to have forgotten the dismal resultsof the advertisement—just one little puny Swedish result. Ishould have preferred to make a choice. Letitia was as pleasedwith Gerda Lyberg as though she had been a selection insteadof a that-or-nothing.
If somebody had dramatized Gerda Lyberg’s initial dinner，it would probably have been considered exceedingly droll.
As a serious episode， however， its humor， to my mind， lackedspontaneity. Letitia had asked her to cook us a little Swedishmeal， so that we could get some idea of Stockholm life， inwhich， for some reason or other， we were supposed to bedeeply interested. Unfortunately I was extremely hungry， andhad carefully avoided luncheon in order to give my appetitea chance. We sat down to a huge bowl of cold， greasy soup，in which enormous lumps of meat swam， as though for theirlife， awaiting rescue at the prongs of a fork. In addition to thisepicurean dish was a teeming plate of water-soaked potatoes，delicately boiled. That was all. Letitia said that it was Swedish，and the most annoying part of the entertainment was that I wasalone in my critical disapprobation. Letitia was so engrossedwith a little Swedish conversation book that she brought totable that she forgot the mere material question of food—forgot everything but the horrible jargon she was studying， andthe soiled， wisp-like maiden， who looked more unlike a cleanslate than ever.
“What shall I say to her， Archie？” asked Letitia， turning overthe pages of her book， as I tried to rescue a block of meat fromthe cold fat in which it lurked. “Here is a chapter on dinner. ‘Iam very hungry，’ ‘Jag ？r myckel hungrig.’ Rather pretty， isn’tit？ Hark at this： ‘Kypare gif mig matsedeln och vinlistan.’ Thatmeans： ‘Waiter， give me the bill of fare， and the list of wines.’”
“Don’t，” I cried； “don’t. This woman doesn’t know whatdining means. Look out a chapter on feeding.”
Letitia was perfectly unruffled. She paid no attention to mewhatsoever. She was fascinated with the slovenly girl， whostood around and gaped at her Swedish.
“Gerda，” said Letitia， with her eyes on the book， “Gif mirapven senap och n？gra pot？ter.” And then， as Miss Lybergdived for the drowned potatoes， Letitia exclaimed in an ecstasyof joy， “She understands， Archie， she understands. I feel I amgoing to be a great success. Jag tackar， Gerda. That means ‘Ithank you，’ Jag tackar. See if you can say it， Archie. Just try，dear， to oblige me. Jag tackar. Now， that’s a good boy， jagtackar.”
“I won’t，” I declared spitefully. “No jag tackaring for a parodylike this， Letitia. You don’t seem to realize that I’m hungry.
Honestly， I prefer a delicatessen dinner to this.”
“‘Pray， give me a piece of venison，’” read Letitia， absolutelydisregarding my mood. “‘var god och gif mig ett stycke vildt.’
It is almost intelligible， isn’t it， dear？ ‘Ni ？ter icke’： you do noteat.”
“I can’t，” I asserted mournfully， anxious to gain Letitia’ssympathy.
It was not forthcoming. Letitia’s eyes were fastened onGerda， and I could not help noting on the woman’s face anexpression of scorn. I felt certain of it. She appeared to regardmy wife as a sort of irresponsible freak， and I was vexed tothink that Letitia should make such an exhibition of herself，and countenance the alleged meal that was set before us.
“‘I have really dined very well，’” she continued joyously.
“Jag har verkligen atit mycket bra.’”
“If you are quite sure that she doesn’t understand English，Letitia，” I said viciously， “I’ll say to you that this is a kindof joke I don’t appreciate. I won’t keep such a woman in thehouse. Let us put on our things and go out and have dinner.
Better late than never.”
Letitia was turning over the pages of her book， quite lostto her surroundings. As I concluded my remarks she lookedup and exclaimed， “How very funny， Archie. Just as you said‘Better late than never，’ I came across that very phrase in thelist of Swedish proverbs. It must be telepathy， dear. ‘Better latethan never，’ ‘Battre sent ？n aldrig.’ What were you saying onthe subject， dear？ Will you repeat it？ And do try it in Swedish.
Say ‘Battre sent ？n aldrig.’”
“Letitia，” I shot forth in a fury， “I’m not in the humor for thissort of thing. I think this dinner and this woman are rotten. Seeif you can find the word rotten in Swedish.”
“I am surprised at you，” Letitia declared glacially， rousedfrom her book by my heroic though unparliamentary language.
“Your expressions are neither English nor Swedish. Pleasedon’t use such gutter-words before a servant， to say nothing ofyour own wife.”
“But she doesn’t understand，” I protested， glancing atMiss Lyberg. I could have sworn that I detected a gleam inthe woman’s eyes and that the sphinx-like attitude of dullincomprehensibility suggested a strenuous effort. “She doesn’tunderstand anything. She doesn’t want to understand.”
“In a week from now，” said Letitia， “she will understandeverything perfectly， for I shall be able to talk with her. Oh，Archie， do be agreeable. Can’t you see that I am having greatfun？ Don’t be such a greedy boy. If you could only enter intothe spirit of the thing， you wouldn’t be so oppressed by thefood question. Oh， dear！ How important it does seem to be tomen. Gerda， hur gammal ？r ni？”
The maiden sullenly left the room， and I felt convinced thatLetitia had Swedishly asked her to do so. I was wrong. “Hurgammal ？r ni，” Letitia explained， simply meant， “How old areyou？”
