art-emporium opened up beside them, Teddie protested that she wasn't greatly taken with the idea of living next to a paint shop. For it was about this time that she first threatened to become a trained nurse or a Deaconess if she had to have balsam-salts in her bath and a maid to chaperon the faucet-flow and poke her feet into rabbit-skin bags. She still hungered for freedom, and complained to her Uncle Chandler about "having to punch a time-clock," as she put it, and more than once had been found enlarging on the Edwardian nature of her environment.
"Poor mother, you know, hasn't a thought later than 1899," this apostle of the New had quite pensively averred.
"There were some very respectable thoughts in 1899, as I remember them," her Uncle Chandler had promptly responded, vaguely aware of little black clouds on the sky-line.
"Yes, that's what's the matter with them," acknowledged Teddie. "They were too respectable. They were smug. And I despise smugness."
