“Why, I’m sure I don’t know. There might be. If you put this dinner over well and get it all done on time I’ll try and remember to speak to him about it. Mr. Powers loves good dinners, and he might do something for you. I’m going down in my car now to meet my friend and I wish you’d answer the telephone while I’m gone and keep an eye on the front door. And don’t for mercy’s sake let anything burn. I just hate to have the house smell of burned food when guests arrive. Don’t forget the bath room floor, and have plenty of biscuits.” The lady sailed away again after having peered into the refrigerator at the tomatoes and fruit cup getting chilled, and sniffed at the kettle of soup on the back of the range, with never a word of commendation. Something strangely like tears came into the girl’s eyes as she turned back to the kitchen and reviewed the work still to be done, looking despairingly at the clock. Quarter to five! Could she do it? One thing she was sure of, she would never work for this woman again if she could help it. There seemed to be no pleasing her. It had been quite another thing to get dinner for Mrs. Bryant, who was delighted with everything she did. This woman treated her as if she were the very dust under her feet. Perhaps she had made a mistake in consenting to do kitchen work. Perhaps she had lowered herself in the woman’s eyes and hurt her chance of getting a school. Well, she must forget it now. It was all in the game and she was out to win. It was just another hindrance put in her way, a net to get her ball over, a wicket through which she must pass. She would win out in spite of it. So, trying to coax a laugh into her throat instead of a sob, she went to work with redoubled vigor. When the cake was frosted and standing white and beautiful in the window to dry she slipped up to the bath room, wiped up the floor and tidied it a bit. It needed a vigorous cleaning but she had no time to give it. Then she hurried down to shell the peas and scrape the potatoes. When they were on she would feel easier in her mind. There was a stalk of celery in the store room and a few English walnuts. The salad would look prettier if she diced the celery and stuffed the tomatoes with celery and nuts. She must try to get time. It wouldn’t take a minute. Then the lettuce must be got from the garden. It ought to be in salt water this instant. The next hour was a wild whirl. It seemed, as she rushed from table to range and from refrigerator back to the kitchen, that she had been rushing, rushing, ever since she left home, and she was tired, oh, so tired.