"How do you do," said Lady Harrison, stepping largely and simply and rustlingly over, until Daisy, her chin up and irises glinting with a pleasant dancing watchfulness, stood right beneath the regard of the kind brown eyes. The mistress pointed her greeting by extending one of her large wandering hands. "I'm quite well," Daisy smiled up as she gave the stock response. "I think we'll sit down," said Lady Harrison, moving to where two chairs stood sociably together. "So you would like to work here?" she said, as Daisy sat plumply down, cupped her elbow in her palm, and tucked her hand, knuckles outward, beneath her chin. "I guess so," said Daisy, looking around. "Have you--have you references?" "What?" said Daisy. "A--references--letters from somebody for whom you have worked for," Lady Harrison, pressed by Sir Thomas to acquire social diction, occasionally used a preposition too many. "I never worked in town," said Daisy, "but I--but I--," it was an effort for Daisy Nixon to add anything savoring of concession, "I will do as well as I can--for _you_." "That's very nice." The social phrase slipped out by chance, this time, in its proper place. "But my hus-- but Sir Thomas Harrison may require references. He generally does." Daisy's face, in spite of her native trait of unconcern, fell a little. She had set her heart upon working in this lady's house. "Never mind, though, dearie," said Lady Martha Harrison, quickly, as she noted the girl's look of disappointment; "Girls are not very easy to get, in town here, and I think, if you turn out real smart and handy--as I'm sure you will--that he--ur, that Sir Thomas--will give you a trial." CHAPTER VI. THE PLEBEIAN. Sir Thomas Harrison sat at a mahogany roll-top desk, big enough and broad enough to accommodate a brace of men, even if both were as burly as he. His feet, stoutly and shiningly booted, were planted, toes pressing down and heels tilted up, in the soft pile of his office rug. A great, clean window behind him, edged with fairy spectra where the sun found a prism in the bevelling of the glass, flooded the office with light. "Let a lit-tle sun-shine in," Sir Thomas had hummed, with apparent joviality, to the old hymn tune, as, a moment before, he had shot the window-blind noisily up to the top of the sash. There had, however, been an ominous note beneath his outwardly genial, toneless chant, as he had glanced through a challenging eye-corner at his secretary, who had previously tiptoed around and pulled down the shade to cut off the sun that was shining blindingly in his eyes where he sat typing. "Don't be all night with that letter, Evans," said Sir Thomas, creaking his swivel chair in a way that made Evans--a nervous father of five, who sat up patiently until between 2 and 4 a.m., three nights a week, minding the youngsters, while his wife, who was young and skittish, "took in" all the dances--writhe in his seat; "show us some speed, ken't you, for once."