days had passed, everyone seemed to be talking of her and praising her clever ideas, much to Harry’s amazement and chagrin.
He had always known Miss Dove was an intelligent woman, but even he hadn’t known the vast scope of her knowledge. She seemed to be a walking, talking Encyclopedia Britannica .
Mrs. Bartleby knew everything about everything, it seemed. She knew how to get ink stains out of silk, the appropriate way for a young lady to refuse a marriage proposal from a widower, which restaurants were respectable establishments where ladies might dine after the theater—accompanied, of course!—and which bakeries could be counted upon for the freshest tea cakes.
She assured girl-bachelors that it was perfectly acceptable to walk with a young man along a public street in the afternoon unaccompanied, provided their acquaintance had been of at least several years’ duration, the woman was on her way home from her job, and she was certain of the young man’s respectability and good character. Ladies, it seemed, had less freedom than girl-bachelors, for they were required to have theirchaperones present at all times until the age of thirty.
Mrs. Bartleby did not neglect the male sex in her weekly dialogue. She knew where a gentleman might find the best-made, most comfortable boots. She knew which tobacconists carried the finest cigars, which the gentlemen would, of course, have the consideration to smoke outside . She staunchly defended detachable shirt collars and cuffs as sensible devices for unmarried professional men, but abhorred cuff protectors and dickeys as inventions unworthy of even the poorest clerk.
The words “Mrs. Bartleby says…” were repeated in so many conversations, Harry felt if he heard them one more time, he was going to go mad.
In addition to this unexpected and rather nauseating development, Harry had been unable to find a satisfactory replacement for Miss Dove. The day after their altercation at her flat, he had rung up an agency, and since then, a series of secretaries had come and gone from Harry’s offices. Time and again he had been promised someone with vast secretarial experience, but there was always something wrong. One took dictation with all the speed of a turtle, another could not get it through his head that Harry preferred coffee to tea with no milk or sugar, another couldn’t keep track of appointments.
The latter flaw was the most inconvenient of all, for Harry had somehow mislaid his appointment book. With Miss Dove, the loss would nothave been a problem, for she had always managed to know where he needed to be and when, but in this regard, her successors were hopeless.
The most recent one, a chap named Quinn, Harry deemed the worst of the lot. He had the irritating habit of hanging his head like a whipped puppy every time a mistake was pointed out to him. Still, explaining the same procedures to a new face every other day had grown wearisome for him and the others on his staff, and Harry had reluctantly accepted Quinn as a temporary replacement. But as the days of May went by and Mrs. Bartleby’s popularity continued to rise, Harry began to fear he was saddled with Quinn, or someone equally irritating, for a long time to come.
As if all that weren’t bad enough, the females in his own house hold had found their shopping expedition to Chelsea and the subsequent advice of Mrs. Bartleby so gratifying that they insisted upon reading her column aloud to each other at breakfast every Saturday morning. They were now planning their lives around what ever new information Miss Dove’s fictional counterpart chose to hand out and spending Harry’s money on what ever she advised them to buy.
“Diana, today’s column might have been written for you.” Louisa rustled the newspaper in her hands. “Today Mrs. Bartleby discusses the giving of wedding breakfasts.”
This news was greeted with exclamations of delight by every female at the table. Harry, who was contemplating a
He had always known Miss Dove was an intelligent woman, but even he hadn’t known the vast scope of her knowledge. She seemed to be a walking, talking Encyclopedia Britannica .
Mrs. Bartleby knew everything about everything, it seemed. She knew how to get ink stains out of silk, the appropriate way for a young lady to refuse a marriage proposal from a widower, which restaurants were respectable establishments where ladies might dine after the theater—accompanied, of course!—and which bakeries could be counted upon for the freshest tea cakes.
She assured girl-bachelors that it was perfectly acceptable to walk with a young man along a public street in the afternoon unaccompanied, provided their acquaintance had been of at least several years’ duration, the woman was on her way home from her job, and she was certain of the young man’s respectability and good character. Ladies, it seemed, had less freedom than girl-bachelors, for they were required to have theirchaperones present at all times until the age of thirty.
Mrs. Bartleby did not neglect the male sex in her weekly dialogue. She knew where a gentleman might find the best-made, most comfortable boots. She knew which tobacconists carried the finest cigars, which the gentlemen would, of course, have the consideration to smoke outside . She staunchly defended detachable shirt collars and cuffs as sensible devices for unmarried professional men, but abhorred cuff protectors and dickeys as inventions unworthy of even the poorest clerk.
The words “Mrs. Bartleby says…” were repeated in so many conversations, Harry felt if he heard them one more time, he was going to go mad.
In addition to this unexpected and rather nauseating development, Harry had been unable to find a satisfactory replacement for Miss Dove. The day after their altercation at her flat, he had rung up an agency, and since then, a series of secretaries had come and gone from Harry’s offices. Time and again he had been promised someone with vast secretarial experience, but there was always something wrong. One took dictation with all the speed of a turtle, another could not get it through his head that Harry preferred coffee to tea with no milk or sugar, another couldn’t keep track of appointments.
The latter flaw was the most inconvenient of all, for Harry had somehow mislaid his appointment book. With Miss Dove, the loss would nothave been a problem, for she had always managed to know where he needed to be and when, but in this regard, her successors were hopeless.
The most recent one, a chap named Quinn, Harry deemed the worst of the lot. He had the irritating habit of hanging his head like a whipped puppy every time a mistake was pointed out to him. Still, explaining the same procedures to a new face every other day had grown wearisome for him and the others on his staff, and Harry had reluctantly accepted Quinn as a temporary replacement. But as the days of May went by and Mrs. Bartleby’s popularity continued to rise, Harry began to fear he was saddled with Quinn, or someone equally irritating, for a long time to come.
As if all that weren’t bad enough, the females in his own house hold had found their shopping expedition to Chelsea and the subsequent advice of Mrs. Bartleby so gratifying that they insisted upon reading her column aloud to each other at breakfast every Saturday morning. They were now planning their lives around what ever new information Miss Dove’s fictional counterpart chose to hand out and spending Harry’s money on what ever she advised them to buy.
“Diana, today’s column might have been written for you.” Louisa rustled the newspaper in her hands. “Today Mrs. Bartleby discusses the giving of wedding breakfasts.”
This news was greeted with exclamations of delight by every female at the table. Harry, who was contemplating a
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