"Yes'm, dish-washing's dead."
"But what can I do, then?"
Hudson nodded his head slowly, or, rather, he sawed the air up and down with his chin. He was still looking at the ceiling so that Sheila could see only the triangle beneath his jaw and the dark, stringy neck above his collar.
"I've got a job for you, girl—a real one."
He pulled out his cigar and sat up. "You remember what I told you the other night?"
"About my being a—a—beacon?" Sheila's voice was delicately tinged with mockery. So was her doubtful smile.
"Yes'm," he said seriously. "Well, that's it."
"What does a beacon do?" she asked.
"It burns. It shines. It looks bright. It wears the neatest little black dress with a frilly apron and deep frilly cuffs. Say, do you recollect something else I told you?"
"I remember everything you told me."