"And giff you de chance to see your schweetheart?" asked the laundress, coyly. "Which one?" he demanded, boldly. "Ye’ll need a lot of thim," said the cook. "For there’s no one girl could put up with ye long. Why are ye not playing your golf to-day, me lord?" "She makes me sick!" he answered, angrily. "There she goes and gets me interested in the game and all, and then she drops it. Why, you know, she promised me at the start she’d train me good and I could go in a tournament. She said she’d introduce me as a friend of hers. She said I was built to be a first-class player, and maybe I’d get to be a perfessional." "Don’t believe everything _she’ll_ be telling you!" said the cook. "Damn old fool!" he muttered. Annie reproved him. "You’ve got no right to speak like that about a lady," she said. "Shut up!" he said briefly. "Go along with you!" cried the cook. "She’ll be waiting." "Leave her wait! She makes me wait enough. If she don’t like waiting for me, leave her say so. I can get plenty of jobs--better than this one, too. I don’t have to put up with nothing from her!" II It was only half-past eight, and Angelica didn’t know what to do with herself. She was in a rebellious and malicious mood; she had been fired by Courtland’s attitude, and she, too, wished to keep some rich person waiting. It was the attitude which is the despair of employers--the spirit in which the young workman comes sauntering in, insolently late, not because he wishes to lose his job or because he is, as they put it, looking for trouble, but because, for this one day, this one hour, he must assert himself, must be a man, must delude himself that he is not inferior, not helpless, not driven. So Angelica, this morning, was ready to assert that servants were in all ways better than those they served, that poor people were all good and rich ones all bad. She felt a warm glow of friendliness toward the subordinate class, and a profound hostility toward their oppressors. She wanted to swagger about it, to tell Mrs. Russell, loudly, that those jolly, comprehensible people in the kitchen were vastly superior to her in every respect. She went defiantly about the lower floor, into the library, into the breakfast-room, where the remains of Mr. Eddie’s meal still stood, into the music-room, even into the august drawing-room, where she had never before set foot. "_I_ don’t care!" she said. "If they don’t like it, they can tell me!" But she met no one. Thwarted of a victim, she went out upon the veranda and sat down in a rocking-chair, facing the prospect already so monotonous to her--the neat, smooth lawns, the orderly trees, the dignified houses. "Makes me sick!" she said, aloud. "Nothing to look at--nothing to do!"