The ladies complained that he never smiled.
"I wouldn't so much mind the hot water pipes leaking now and then," the
ladies would remark in the vestibule, rustling their skirts to show
that they wore silk petticoats, "if only the janitor would smile. But
he looks like a cemetery."
"I know it," would be the response. "I told Mr. Wilberforce last night
that if he would only get a cheerful janitor I wouldn't mind our having
rubber instead of Axminster on the stairs."
"You know we were promised Axminster when we moved in," would be the
plaintive response. The ladies would stand together for a moment
wrapped in gloomy reflection, and then part.
The kitchen and nurse maids felt on the subject, too.
"If Carl Carlsen would only smile," they used to exclaim in sibilant
whispers, as they passed on the way to the laundry. "If he'd come in
an' joke while we wus washin'!"
Only Kara Johnson never said anything on the subject because she knew
why Carlsen didn't smile, and was sorry for it, and would have made it
all right--if it hadn't been for Lars Larsen.
Dear, dear, but this is a digression from the subject of the Lease.
That terrible document was held over the heads of the children as the
Herodian pronunciamento concerning small boys was over the heads of the
Israelites.
It was in the Lease not to run--not to jump--not to yell.
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