Miss Million's Maid: A Romance of Love and Fortune

Why, she's going to ask me down there, too, to one of her week-end parties!
Copyright, 1915, by DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
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My story begins with an incident that is bound to happen some time in any household that boasts—or perhaps deplores—a high-spirited girl of twenty-three in it.
It begins with a row about a young man.
My story begins, too, where the first woman's story began—in a garden.
It was the back garden of our red-roofed villa in that suburban street, Laburnum Grove, Putney, S.W.
Now all those eighty-five neat gardens up and down the leafy road are one exactly like the other, with the same green strip of lawn just not big enough for tennis, the same side borders gay with golden calceolaria, scarlet geranium, blue lobelia, and all the bright easy-to-grow London flowers. All the villas belonging to the gardens seem alike, too, with their green front doors, their white steps, their brightly polished door-knockers and their well-kept curtains.
From the look of these typically English, cheerful, middle-class, not-too-well-off little homes you'd know just the sort of people who live in them. The plump, house-keeping mother, the season-ticket father, the tennis-playing sons, the girls in dainty blouses, who put their little newly whitened shoes to dry on the bathroom window-sill, and who call laughing remarks to each other out of the window.
I say, Gladys! don't forget it's the theatre to-night!
Oh, rather not! See you up at the Tennis Club presently?