"Oh," said Betty, "it's not with Penny this time."
"Not with George?"
"Yes, with George," Betty answered. "Did you think one couldn't quarrel with the noblest of his sex? Well, one can."
"Oh, Betty, I'm sorry." Genevieve's tone was slightly reproachful.
"Well, I'm not," said Betty. "I like my present job better. It was a good thing he fired me."
"Fired you! George fired you?"
"Sure thing," responded Betty blithely. "I can't stand here talking all day. What I want to know is, can I see you at lunch?"
"Yes—why, yes, of course," said Genevieve, dazedly. Then she hung up the receiver and stared into space.
George, beautifully dressed, tall and handsome, now emerged from his room. For once his adoring wife failed to notice that in appearance he rivaled the sun god. She had one thing she wanted to know, and she wanted to know it badly. It was,
"Why did you fire Betty Sheridan?"