Winthrop Chase, Senior, had built a home for himself a dozen years before, in the first rush of great wealth from the furnace. It was a monumental house, of red, pressed brick, with a slate roof and a fence of iron pickets around the yard. It had been, when he built it, the finest house in town. Now, however, its supremacy was challenged by a dozen others, and the elder Chase had half decided to tear it down and build another that would defy competition. Mrs. Chase opposed this, gently and half-heartedly. She thought they were very comfortable. But it was a losing fight, and she knew it. Her husband was accustomed to have his way. He would have it in the end. Wint pushed open the iron gate--it dragged on its hinges so that it had worn a deep groove in the stone paving that led to the porch--and closed it behind him, and went up to the door. He opened it and went in; and in the dim light of the hall he encountered a girl. For an instant, he failed to recognize her; then: “Why, hello--Hetty,” he said. “Hello, Wint.” “What are you doing here?” He dropped his hat on the hall bench. “I’ve come to work for your mother.” She hesitated. “Supper’s ready. They’re sitting down.” “Oh!” He looked at Hetty again. They had been schoolmates. Her seat had been just in front of his one year. He remembered, with sudden vividness, the day he stuck chewing gum in her hair. Her hair was red; a pleasant, dark red; and it was very luxuriant. “Oh--all right,” he said, and went into the dining room. His father and mother were at the table. “I see you’ve got a girl, mother,” he said. “Yes--I’ve got Hetty Morfee.” Mrs. Chase sighed. “I’ve had the most awful time, Wint. I do hope she stays. Girls are terrible hard to get, in this town. They--” Mrs. Chase was loquacious. Her speeches were never finished. She was always interrupted in mid-career. Otherwise, she would have talked on endlessly. “That steak looks as though she could cook,” said Wint. “Give me some.” CHAPTER IV JACK ROUTT One of Mrs. Chase’s difficulties with hired girls was that Winthrop Chase, Senior, liked style with his meals. Mr. Chase was no provincial. He had traveled; he had lived at good hotels; he knew New York, Columbus, Cleveland, Cincinnati. He had been a guest at fine homes. He knew what was what. “It adds tone to a repast,” he would tell his wife, over and over. “It adds tone to a repast. A neatly dressed maidservant, in apron and cap, handing your dishes around. I tell you, Margaret, it gives that--that--that style....” “I know it, Winthrop,” Mrs. Chase always agreed. “I’d like to have it so, as much as you would. Land knows I’ve tried. I’ve trained, and I’ve trained; but you can’t expect a girl to do everything for two dollars a week, or even three. Why, Mrs. Hullis had--” “Well, pay more, then. Pay more. Five, or ten dollars. I make money enough. I surely make money enough, Margaret, to have comfort and--and style in my own home.”