"Just leaving, I suppose," he remarked with pleasant matter-of-factness.
"Yes, sir. My bags are down at the basement door. When I heard the ring, I just happened—"
"I understand. You wouldn't have answered the door, if almost all the regular servants had not been gone. Now, I'd say," smiling engagingly, "that you might be the cook, and a mighty good cook, too."
He had such an "air," did this young man,—the human air of the real gentleman,—that, despite the unexpectedness of his overture, the stout woman, instead of taking offense, flushed with pleasure.
"I ought to be a good one, sir; that's what I'm paid for."
"Seventy-five a month?" estimated the young gentleman.
"Eighty," corrected the cook.
"That's mighty good—twenty dollars a week. But, Mrs. Cook,"—again with his open, engaging smile,—"pardon me for not knowing your proper name,—could I induce you to enter my employment—at, say, twenty dollars a minute?"
"What—what—"
"For only a limited period," continued the young gentleman—"to be exact, say one minute. Light work," he added with a certain whimsicality, "short hours, seven days out—unusual opportunity."