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“You remind me of a family I once knew, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said; “it consisted of the usual father and mother, and of five sad, healthy girls. They kept two servants–or, rather, they never kept any servants; they lived always looking for servants, breaking their hearts over servants, packing servants off at a moment’s notice, standing disconsolately looking after servants who had packed themselves off at a moment’s notice, wondering generally what the world was coming too. It occurred to me at the time, that without much trouble, they could have lived a peaceful life without servants. The eldest girl was learning painting–and seemed unable to learn anything else. It was poor sort of painting; she noticed it herself. But she seemed to think that, if she talked a lot about it, and thought of nothing else, that somehow it would all come right. The second girl played the violin. She played it from early morning till late evening, and friends fell away from them. There wasn’t a spark of talent in the family, but they all had a notion that a vague longing to be admired was just the same as genius.

“Another daughter fancied she would like to be an actress, and screamed all day in the attic. The fourth wrote poetry on a typewriter, and wondered why nobody seemed to want it; while the fifth one suffered from a weird belief that smearing wood with a red- hot sort of poker was a thing worth doing for its own sake. All of them seemed willing enough to work, provided only that it was work of no use to any living soul. With a little sense, and the occasional assistance of a charwoman, they could have led a merrier life.”

“If I was giving away secrets,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “I’d say to the mistresses: ‘Show yourselves able to be independent.’ It’s because the gals know that the mistresses can’t do without them that they sometimes gives themselves airs.”