Mrs. Sequin gasped. “What is your name?”
“Flathers, mam.”
“Dreadful! I will call you Benson.”
“Benson it is. Better men than me have changed their names. There was Saul now, Saul of Tarsus—”
“Turn the drafts off in the furnace and don't come up-stairs again on any account. But no,—wait a moment.” Mrs. Sequin's keen eye swept him from head to foot. “Have you ever had any experience in serving?”
Phineas, whose only claim to serving was that “they also serve who only stand and wait,” dropped his eyes.
“Only the communion, mam, and the collection. But I ain't above lending a hand, mam. You'd do as much for me. I was just saying to the lady in the kitchen, that anybody was fortunate to work for a person with as generous a face as yours.”
“Clean yourself up, and put on Jenkins' coat, and if another waiter is absolutely necessary, they can call on you,” directed Mrs. Sequin hurriedly, then calling to the maid, “Has Miss Margery come down yet?”
“She's in the library, mam.”
Margery, pale and listless, turned from the window as her mother entered.