"Now I'm secretary to you," I reminded him.
"You are not," he said, "you're an unpaid slave, being exploited for all you're worth, and you ought to be on strike this minute. Seriously," he added, "I can't go on this way. Don't you see that I can't allow it?"
"I beg your pardon," I said—and indeed I had hardly heard what he had been saying, for I was thinking: Here—walking along the street with me—John Ember, John Ember, John Ember!
"I'm saying," he observed, "that I discharge you from to-night."
"Look here, Mr. Ember," I said, "you can't discharge me—don't you understand! I've made up my mind to stay with you."
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "So you've made up your mind?"
"You mustn't be so selfish," I explained it. "You must think a little of me. Here you are, doing a big, fine work, work that interests me more than anything in the world. I've no other chance to help on, except through you and Rose. Why do you want to drive me out?"
"But, my child," he said, "if you don't mind the practicality of the question, what are you living on?"
"Oh, that!" I said. "I pay my way by making Mrs. Bingy's lace."