“Why don’t you put an advertisement in the ‘Commune’? You have no idea how it will bring in work. And then hang out a shingle, too. People have got to learn to recognize you as a wage-earning person before they come around and offer you things to do.”
“But what can I do? I don’t know how to iron well enough to take in laundry, like you.”
A voice outside called:
“Is this Miss Madeleine Petit’s room?”
“Come in. Can’t you see the name on the door?” answered Madeleine. “There’s only one Petit at Wellington and I’m the lady.”
Millicent Porter now entered.
She looked smaller and more shriveled than ever in a beautiful mink coat and cap and a velvet dress of a rich shade of blue that breathed prosperity in every fold.
“This is the region where signs are out asking for work, isn’t it?” she asked in a pleasantly patronizing, unctious voice.
“We don’t ask for work. We announce that we do it and the work comes,” replied Madeleine, eyeing the visitor with a kind of humorous pity.
“Be that as it may,” said Miss Porter, “I have some work I want done and I’m looking for a very competent and reliable person to do it.”