off without
washing the breakfast dishes. You can wash dishes, any way."

"Why, I can try," laughed the girl, the ridiculousness of her present
situation suddenly getting the better of other emotions.

And so they got into a car and were whirled away into a pretty suburb. The
woman, whose name was Mrs. Hart, lived in a common little house filled
with imitation oriental rugs and cheap furniture.

The two went to work at once, bringing order out of the confusion that
reigned in the tiny kitchen. In the afternoon the would-be waitress sat
down with a box of water-colors to paint dinner-cards, and as her skilful
brush brought into being dainty landscapes, lovely flowers, and little
brown birds, she pondered the strangeness of her lot.

The table the next night was laid with exquisite care, the scant supply of
flowers having been used to best advantage, and everything showing the
touch of a skilled hand. The long hours that Mrs. Hart had spent
puckering her brow over the household department of fashion magazines
helped her to recognize the fact that in her new maid she had what she was
pleased to call "the real thing."

She sighed regretfully when the guest of honor, Mrs. Rhinehart, spoke of
the deftness and pleasant appearance of her hostess's waitress.

"Yes," Mrs. Hart said, swelling with pride, "she is a treasure. I only
wish I could keep her."

"She's going to get married, I suppose. They all do when they're good,"
sympathized the guest.

"No, but she simply won't do cooking, and I really haven't work enough for
two servants in this little house."

The guest sat up and took notice.

"You don't mean to tell me that you are letting a girl like that slip
through your fingers? I wish I had known about her. I have spent three
days in intelligence offices. Is there any chance for me, do you think?"

Then did the little woman prove that she should have had an _e_ in her
name, for she burst into a most voluble account of the virtues of her new
maid, until the other woman was re