At that moment, a door slammed violently on the floor above. There was a swift swish of skirts, and then the vivid, angry face of Mrs. Millidew, the younger, came suddenly into view. She leaned far out over the banister rail and searched the hallway below with quick, roving eyes.
"Are you there. Trotter?" she called out in a voice that trembled perceptibly.
He advanced a few paces, stopping beside the newel post. He looked straight up into her eyes.
"Yes, Mrs. Millidew."
"You begin driving for me today," she said hurriedly. "Do you understand?"
"But, madam, I am not open to—"
"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You don't know it, but you are out of a job. Trotter."
"I am not surprised," he said.
"I don't care what you were doing last night,—that is your affair, not mine. You come to me at once at the same wages—"
"I beg your pardon," he broke in. "I mean to say I am not seeking another situation."
"If it is a question of pay, I will give you ten dollars a week more than you were receiving here. Now, don't haggle. That is sixty dollars a week. Hurry up! Decide! She will be out here in a minute. Oh, thunder!"
The same door banged open and the voice of Mrs. Millidew, the elder, preceded its owner by some seconds in the race to the front.
"You are not fired, Trotter," she squealed. Her head, considerably dishevelled, appeared alongside the
