“Well, no—I suppose, rather an advantage! I thought you were my manager, or I wouldn’t have let you in,” and she pulled down her sleeves, and threw the stump of her cigarette into the fireplace. “You see, though I’m Mrs. Cavendish Foote, my professional name is Tottie Toye. I dare say, you have seen me on the boards?”
“Yes, I have had the pleasure,” he answered politely.
“Oh my!” she ejaculated. “Well, anyhow, you’ve got pretty manners. Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“I mean in London traffic. I don’t want to get smashed up, you know; if I break a leg, where am I? How long were you in your last place?”
“Six months.”
“And your reason for leaving?”
“They gave up keeping a motor.”
“Idiots!” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t live without mine! Your job will be to take me to the shop, and fetch me back at night, and to run me about London in the daytime, and out into the country on Sundays—home on Monday night. Do you think you can manage all that?”
“I think so.”