On returning to New York I took the schedule at once to a reputable agency for domestic servants. Pretending that I was acting in behalf of a friend who lived in the country, I showed the two typed pages to the manager, and asked for a maid who would do that work for fifteen dollars a month. The manager glared at me. She assured me that it was impossible for one woman to do so much work even in a twenty-four-hour day. She didn’t exactly show me the door, but the manner in which she looked at it was pointed. At the next agency the manager was more polite. She advised me to induce my friend to get three girls. Even then, she explained, my friend would have to pay the girls at least twenty dollars a month each. “We don’t have as many greenhorns coming over as we used to,” she told me, “and even those we do have demand more money. Twenty dollars a month is very little these days even for the poorest servant.” The woman in charge at the next agency brusquely informed me that she had too much respect for herself to offer such a job to any girl, even the most ignorant immigrant. My friend, she added, should be forced to do all that work herself, then she might understand why she couldn’t get a girl. At the fifth agency I was treated as a half-witted creature to whom the manager was forced by her own self-respect to be polite. Evidently, she told me, I had no experience with housework. Otherwise I would know that it would be impossible for a human being, man or woman, however skilled, to accomplish so much work in one day. If my friend’s home was near a popular beach, or offered an equally desirable summer attraction, she might get me two women. Wages? Thirty-five dollars a month each, perhaps more. Determined to give Mrs. Howard a square deal I called on my Y. W. C. A. friend. After reading the advertisement and the schedule, she computed the beds in the four dormitories and their sleeping-porches. “Forty-two beds!” she exclaimed. “Why making forty-two beds is a day’s work, a hard day’s work in itself. A hotel chambermaid seldom has more than twenty-five beds.” When I explained that most of these beds were always wet, many of them always soiled, her surprise became indignation. “That woman is worse than any slave-driver!” she exclaimed. “Oh, yes, she is! The idea of expecting any woman to care for forty-two such beds, carry the bedclothes and mattresses down two flights of stairs and hang them on lines in the back yard to dry. When they do dry you must cart them back again and make the beds. Something should be done to that woman. I wish the law could reach her.” Again turning to the schedule she read to the end of the two closely typed legal-cap pages.