"Wot wages joo ask?"
"Seventy-two pounds a year, madam, and—er—all found. And one afternoon a week," he added boldly.
Mrs. Slumper blinked at him curiously.
"You don' look ser bad," she said grudgingly. "An' I'm sick an' tired of tryin' for a footman, or I'd see yer further. 'Owever…." She looked up sharply. "Will yer put that in writin' abaout the week?"
"Certainly, madam." And, with that, Lyveden stepped to a bureau and wrote his undertaking upon a sheet of note-paper. He was about to affix his signature, when it occurred to him that footmen do not write at their mistresses' bureaus except privily or by invitation. He flushed furiously. There was, however, no help for it now. The thing was done. Desperately he signed his name. He handed the paper to the lady humbly enough.
Mrs. Slumper sighed.
"In course," she said, "we 'ave things very well done. The butler's aout naow, or I'd 'ave 'im up. But you'll 'ave ter wait, an' open the door, an' clean the boots, an' come aout on the car. I've got some noo livery—never bin worn yet—did ought ter fit you a treat. An'—'ow soon kin yer come?" she demanded suddenly.
"To-morrow evening, madam."
"Or-right."
Anthony bowed himself out.