in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What is your name?"
She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows.
"Thomas Trotter, madam."
"How tall are you?"
"Six feet."
"I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him.
Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam."
"You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you."
"Are you speaking of livery, madam?"
"I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't be buying new uniforms every two weeks. I don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. Mr. Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter of fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin. You couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man. I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English chauffeur, and—you are English, aren't you?"
"Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for you. I never, under any circumstances, wear livery,—I beg your pardon, I should say a uniform."
"You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking.
"Wear livery," said he, succinctly.
"That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you worked for me. Now, see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon—"
"I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted po-
