“Father isn’t very right, though. Even when Miss Dear has all the beautiful things in the most beautiful colors in the world cooked for him and sent to him, he won’t eat them unless she comes and sits beside him and begs him.”
“He’s very fond of sauce verte,” Nancy said 188 hastily, “and apricot mousse and cèpes et pimentos, things that Gaspard can’t make for the regular menu,—bright colored things that Sheila loves to look at.”
“He likes petit pois avec laitue too and haricot coupé, and artichaut mousselaine. Sometimes when he does not want them Miss Dear eats them.”
“I’m glad they are diverted to some good use,” Dick said.
“I’ve been looking into the living conditions of my waitresses.” Nancy changed the subject hastily. “Did you realize, Dick, that the waitresses have about the unfairest deal of any of the day laborers? They’re not organized, you know. Their hours are interminable, the work intolerably hard, and the compensation entirely inadequate. Moreover, they don’t last out for any length of time. I’m trying out a new scheme of very short shifts. Also, I’m having a certain sum of money paid over to them every month from my bank. If they don’t know where it comes from it can’t do them any harm. That is, I am not establishing a precedent for wages that they won’t be able to earn elsewhere. I consider it immoral to do that.”
“You are paying them an additional sum of money out of your own pocket? You told me you paid them the maximum wage, anyhow, and they get lots of tips.”
“Oh! but that’s not nearly enough.”
“Nancy,” Dick said dramatically, “where do you get the money?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nancy said, “it comes along. The restaurant makes some.”