"If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for you."
"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Xerxes," smiled Madge.
"THAT IS VERY KIND OF YOU."
"I 'oped you would take it that way, miss. It's where I was charing to-day. The young ladies are doin' up their rooms, and they asked me if I could recommend a respectable young person for upholstery. So I put in a word for you, thinking that every little helps."
"Indeed, it does, Mrs. Xerxes. Where is the house? And when am I to go?"
"To-morrow, at nine. Here's the address."
Mrs. Xerxes extricated a scrap of dirty paper from her pocket, and handed it to Madge. Then she went hobbling downstairs again.
A little later, a man who had groped his way up the narrow stairs stopped on the third-floor landing, gasping for breath. Madge was singing—her chatelaine jingling, not unmusically, for accompaniment—as she moved about her room. It was a sweet song, sweet with hope and promise:—