"Of course—you are pretty raw. The thing is—you won't be able to put on side. A man who cleans the boots in my house doesn't put on side."
"Point No. 1," he said, "I clean the boots."
"And carry up luggage."
"Yes."
"And keep an eye on the yard and the garage. By the way,—know anything of billiards?"
"I play."
"Then you know how to mark. Then—there is the 'Bar.' You will have to scrub that out every morning, and give a hand sometimes with the drinks."
"Right."
She felt him growing stiffer with the swallowing of each detail. His pale face confronted her with an air of defiance. With each scratch of the claw he forced himself to a grimmer rigidity. He refused to wince.
"Anything else?"
"Oh,—any odd job I may want done."
"Yes."
"And you will call me 'madam.'"
She gave him a stare, and in it was a brutal curiosity. He was like a slave in the arena, down in the sand, and she was wondering whether he would cry for mercy.
"Very well, madam. And may I ask—what I get out of the job?"
"Thirty bob a week—and your keep."
"Is that all?"
"Tips. Don't forget the tips. If a man's obliging"
She gave an indescribable twitch of the shoulders.
"It's a posh job—in the right place. You'll live in—of course."
Sorrell stood fingering his hat.
"And what about my boy?"
"I'm not engaging a boy. We don't have children here. You can board him out somewhere, and he can go to school. How old?"
"Eleven."
"Very well; it's up to you, Sorrell. I can fill this place ten times over in half an hour."
She saw the white teeth under the little black moustache, and she understood how he was feeling. He hated her.
