At one agency the manageress, whose lack of patience made her tell the brusque truth on occasions, went so far as to suggest that Eve might take a place as parlourmaid in a big house. She had a smart figure and a good appearance. Some people were dispensing with menservants, and were putting their maids into uniform and making them take the place of butler and footman. The position of such a servant was preferable to the lot of a lady-help. Wouldn’t Eve think it over?
Eve said she would. She agreed with the manageress in thinking that there were gleams of independence in such a life, especially when one had gained a character and experience, learnt to look after silver and to know about wines.
None the less, she was discouraged and rebellious, and on her way home after one of these expeditions, she fell in with John Parfit. It was the man of six-and-forty who blushed, not Eve. She had to help him over the stile of his self-consciousness.
“Yes, I am ever so much better. Won’t you walk a little way with me? I’ve had tea, and I thought of having a stroll round the Fields.”
He put himself at her side with laborious politeness, and because of his shyness he could do nothing more graceful than blurt out questions.
“Got what you want yet?”
“No, not yet.”
He frowned to himself.
“Not worrying, are you?”
“I’m learning not to worry. Nothing is as bad as it seems.”