Mrs. Millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,--an idiosyncrasy, it may be said, that brought her into contact with a great many of them in the course of a twelvemonth. The last one to leave her without giving the customary week's notice had remained in her employ longer than any of his predecessors. A most astonishing discrepancy appeared in their statements as to the exact length of time he was in her service. Mrs. Millidew maintained that he was with her for exactly three weeks; the chauffeur swore to high heaven that it was three centuries. She had Thomas Trotter up before her. "You have been recommended to me by Mr. Cricklewick," she said, regarding him with a critical eye. "No other reference is necessary, so don't go fumbling in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What is your name?" She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black and carefully placed eyebrows. "Thomas Trotter, madam." "How tall are you?" "Six feet." "I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him. Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam." "You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you." "Are you speaking of livery, madam?" "I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't be buying new uniforms every two weeks. I don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost money. Mr. Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter of fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you would have to be under five feet nine and fairly thin. You couldn't possibly squeeze into the uniform, my man. I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English chauffeur, and--you _are_ English, aren't you?" "Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for you. I never, under any circumstances, wear livery,--I beg your pardon, I should say a uniform." "You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking. "Wear livery," said he, succinctly. "That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you worked for me. Now, see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've seen the uniform I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon--" "I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted politely, favouring her with his never-failing smile. Her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is as far as I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know." "I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are quite a good-looking fellow. The last man I had looked like a street cleaner, even in his maroon coat and white pants. I--Don't you think you could be persuaded to put it on if I,--well, if I added five dollars a week to your wages? I like your looks. You look as if you might have been a soldier." Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least object to wearing the uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew. That's quite different, you see."