"Lizzie, you know it isn't that. I'm poor as poor can be. I couldn't pay you half the time, maybe."
"Well, wait till I ask you for the money," said Lizzie, crossly, climbing on a chair, poking her head into the cupboard, rattling things. "We need baking powder, Mis' Green, I told you that yesterday; and we need cinnamon. Jodie finds the cinnamon sticks no matter where I hide them."
"No, Lizzie, I want you to go and get some nice place with good wages. Nobody could expect you to stay here for the tiny little bit I can pay."
Lizzie's face turned as red as fire.
"Mis' Green, you ain't got no right to speak to me that way!"
And then she burst into tears, throwing her apron over her face, rocking back and forth, sobbing. And Kate cried, too, and kissed her. All the rest of the day Kate was gentle and shining, with pink nose and eyelids, and Lizzie was as cross as two sticks. She put on her hat and her coat—the old burgundy-colored coat from Kate's trousseau—and marched downtown, and that evening there was a wonderful charlotte russe for supper. When Kate asked her about the cream and lady fingers, she banged the oven door and clattered the pans and pretended not to hear.
