II + 

Now of Mrs. Vokins I desire to speak with the greatest respect, if only for the reason that she was Elena Barry-Smith’s mother. Mrs. Vokins had, no doubt, the kindest heart in the world; but she had spent the first thirty years of her life in a mountain-girdled village, and after her husband’s wonderful luck⁠—if you will permit me her vernacular⁠—in being “let in on the groundfloor” when the Amalgamated Tobacco Company was organised, I believe that Mrs. Vokins was never again quite at ease. + 

I am abysmally sure she never grew accustomed to being waited on by any servant other than a girl who “came in by the day”; though, oddly enough, she was incessantly harassed by the suspicion that one or another “good-for-nothing nigger was getting ready to quit.” Her time was about equally devoted to tending her canary, Bill Bryan, and to furthering an apparently diurnal desire to have supper served a quarter of an hour earlier tonight, “so that the servants can get off.” + 

Finally Mrs. Vokins considered that “a good woman’s place was right in her own home, with a nice clean kitchen,” and was used to declare that the fummadiddles of Mrs. Carrie Nation⁠—who was in New York that winter, you may remember, advocating Prohibition⁠—would never have been stood for where Mrs. Vokins was riz. Them Yankee hussies, she estimated, did beat her time. + 