litely, favouring her with his never-failing smile. Her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is as far as I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know."
"I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are quite a good-looking fellow. The last man I had looked like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white pants. I— Don't you think you could be persuaded to put it on if I,—well, if I added five dollars a week to your wages? I like your looks. You look as if you might have been a soldier."
Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew. That's quite different, you see."
"Suppose I take you on trial for a couple of weeks," she ventured, surrendering to his smile and the light in his unservile eyes. Considering the matter settled, she went on brusquely: "How old are you. Trotter?"
"Thirty."
"Are you married? I never employ married men. Their wives are always having babies or operations or something disagreeable and unnecessary."
"I am not married, Mrs. Millidew."
"Who was your last employer in England?"
"His Majesty King George the Fifth," said Trotter calmly.
Her eyes bulged. "What?" she cried. Then her eyes narrowed. "And do you mean to tell me you didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?"
"I wore a uniform, madam."
"Umph! America has spoiled you, I see. That's always the way. Independence is a curse. Have you
