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MRS. DUD’S SISTER
THEY were having tea on the terrace. As Varian strolled up to the group he wished that Hunter could see the picture they made—Hunter, who had not been in America for thirty years, and who had been so honestly surprised when Varian had spoken of Mrs. Dud’s pretty maids—she always had pretty ones, even to the cook’s third assistant.
“Maids? Maids? It used to be ‘help,’” he had protested. “You don’t mean to say they have waitresses in Binghamville now?”
Varian had despaired of giving him any idea.
“Come over and see Mrs. Dud,” he
