her love for Bill Bastien, nearly twenty years her junior, was the reason.
"So," she said, staring hard at the two young women, "you're the girls sent out by the agency. Ever worked in a hotel before?"
"Yes," answered the short one, "I've been five years a 'ousemaid in a public-'ouse in Camden Town. I can do laundry work too, and know how to clean silver and brasses, and put a cake together in a pinch."
"What is your name?"
"May Phillips."
"They told you what wages I'd give at the agency, did they?"
"Oh, yes."
"And you," she said, turning to the tall girl, beside whom Kirke still stood, not looking at her but feeling the subtle power of her presence in every nerve. "What have you been used to?"
"Waiting at table," came in her low, husky voice, with a slight Somerset accent.
"That's good. What's your name?"
The girl hesitated, and her companion answered for her, "Miss Mainprize, 'er nime is."
"H'm. We don't do any 'Miss-ing' here. I want your first name."
May Phillips giggled and looked at her friend teasingly. "She's a bit shy about 'er first nime."
Mrs. Jessop grinned. "Go ahead, girl. Don't be shy of me. I guess I've heard all the funny names that ever got tacked on to anyone."
"Out with it," interposed Kirke. "It'll no raise a laugh out o' me, if it's Hepzibah, or Keziah."
"It's not funny," answered the girl, an angry tremor in her voice. "It's beautiful. It's too beautiful for here.
