"I—don't think I'd care for either of those," she answered.
"Hm. Wouldn't care to do a little posing? Oh, of course not. No future in that—" Mrs. Carey's brows wrinkled. She broke a roll and buttered it. "Nothing," she said, "happens without good reason. I was alarmed about my cook this morning. Laid up in bed. I think it's—'flu,' though I hope not. Anyway, the doctor says it's not serious; she'll be well in a day or so. But I hated to go out for my breakfast instead of eating in bed. And I can't cook a thing!"
"No?" said Clancy. Into her tones crept frigidity. Mrs. Carey laughed suddenly.
"Bless your sweet heart, did you think I was offering you a place as cook? No; in my roundabout, verbose way, Miss Deane, I was explaining that my cook's illness was a matter for congratulation. It sent me outdoors, enabled me to meet you, and—after breakfast come over to my studio. Sally Henderson needs an assistant, and spoke to me the other day. You'll do."
"What sort of work is it?" asked Clancy timidly.
"Interior decorating—and renting apartments."
"But I—don't know anything about that sort of thing."
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"Neither does Sally. Her father died five years ago. He was a doctor. Lots of money, but spent it all. Sally had to do something. So she became an interior decorator. Don't argue with me, my dear. I intend to play Destiny for you. How are the buckwheat cakes?"