“Oh, I! This is my workshop. This is my life. But you—I should have suspected you from the first word you spoke. What are you? Don't tell me that you are here Settlementing or Sociologizing or Improving the Condition of Somebody Else! Because I really do need your face,” she concluded with convincing earnestness. “It's yours at fifty cents an hour.”
“And you're not an Improver?”
“Absolutely not. Do I look as if I'd improved myself?”
“You wouldn't do at all for my present purpose, improved,” she observed. “Please don't forget that. When can you come to me?”
“Any time.”
“Haven't you anything else to do?”
“Nothing but look out for odd jobs. That's why I'm so grateful for regular employment.”
“But this isn't regular employment.” His face fell. “It's most irregular, and there's very little of it.”
“Oh, well, it's fifty cents an hour. And that's more than I've ever earned in my life, Miss Sculptor.”
“I am Miss Willard.”.