"Oh, bosh, Sophrony!" ejaculated Miss Peckham. "Well, as I say,
Mr. Day, Mrs. Watkins is a widow, and she needs a settled place."
"Just what are you trying to get at, Miss Peckham? I don't understand you," asked Mr. Day, his face actually getting rather pale.
Neither did Janice understand; but her father looked so funny that the girl giggled again. Miss Peckham gave her a reproving glance.
"I sh'd think you'd understand your need well enough, Broxton Day," she said sternly. "First of all that gal ought to be learned manners. But that's incidental, as you might say. What I am tellin' you is, that here's your chance to get a housekeeper that'll amount to something."
"Oh! Ah! I see!" exclaimed Mr. Day in staccato fashion, and evidently very much relieved. "Mrs. Watkins is looking for a position?"
"Well, she ought to be. But it does take a stick of dynamite to get her goin', seems to me. Speak up, Sophrony!"
"Why, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Day," said the faded-out lady, simpering. "I've been considerin' acceptin' a position such as you have. Of course, I ain't used to working out—"
"Oh, fiddlesticks? put in Miss Peckham, "He don't care nothin' about that, Sophrony. He can see you ain't no common servant."
"Assuredly I can see that, Mrs. Watkins," said Mr. Day, suavely. "But do you think you would care to accept such a position as I can offer you?"
"I should be pleased to try it," said Mrs. Watkins, with a sigh.
"Of course, it would be a comedown for me—"