Evidently her opinion was shared by all my neighbors. This woman in perfect health, under thirty and whining, actually shedding tears because she had to work, had their sympathy. Not that she was poorer or her condition in any way harder than their own, but for the single reason that she as a married woman had a right to be supported. While turning this idea over in my mind my attention was attracted by a ripple of pleased exclamations. A slender old gentleman had entered the loft from the elevator and was passing along the aisle between the workers. The carnation in his buttonhole was not more spotlessly white than his hair and whiskers. From time to time when he would recognize a worker he would pause, shake hands, and exchange a few remarks. At the end of our table he greeted the woman in charge of the folders cordially, told her that he was glad to see her back and hoped that she would remain until the work was finished. When in reply to his question she assured him that everything, including the delivery of the bottled milk, was being done for the workers’ comfort, he bowed to us all and passed on. The last glimpse I had of him was among the men workers at the far end of the loft. He had stooped to pick up the crutch of a lame man, an old addresser who, I was told, did more than two thousand envelopes a day. During the three days and a half that I worked for that firm I never heard so much as a whispered complaint against conditions. The loft in which we worked was well lighted and ventilated. Though the weather was bitterly cold it was always comfortably heated. The chairs were comfortable and the tables of a comfortable height. Though pens and ink and other supplies were never wasted, the workers were generously supplied. On Saturday at one o’clock I was paid eight dollars. It seemed a huge amount compared to the six dollars I might have received had I continued at the department store. Not having planned to have Polly spend her life addressing envelopes or folding circulars, Monday morning found me again on the tramp, looking for a job. At three places I turned away without making my application known—having learned from experience that no business occupying a few small rooms has need of twoscore or more workers. The fourth place advertised for girls to count coupons. The woman manager expressed regret at having filled her last vacancy. Then she added: “If you apply on the street floor, maybe Mr. Spencer will take you on. Tell him that Mrs. Linwood sent you.” The street floor, to my eyes, had the appearance of a sort of general store—practically every article one could wish for was to be seen and attractively arranged. On finding Mr. Spencer I delivered Mrs. Linwood’s message. “If you are willing to begin at seven dollars a week I can place you at once,” he told me. Recalling that it was a dollar more than offered by the department store and, being in walking distance, would require no car-fare, I promptly accepted.