When I had got over the surprise of doing business with
and trying to give orders to a young woman of coldly, clerkly
aspect intrenched behind gold-rimmed spectacles, I made inquiries
concerning the pleasures of this independence. They liked
it - indeed they did. 'Twas the natural fate of almost all
girls - the recognized custom in America - and I was a barbarian
not to see it in that light.
"Well, and after?" said I. "What happens?"
"We work for our bread."
"And then what do you expect?"
"Then we shall work for our bread."
"Till you die?"
"Ye-es - unless - "
"Unless what? This is your business, you know. A man works
until he dies."
"So shall we" - this without enthusiasm - "I suppose."
Said the partner in the firm, audaciously: - "Sometimes we marry
our employees - at least, that's what the newspapers say."
The hand banged on half a dozen of the keys of the machine at
once. "Yet I don't care. I hate it - I hate it - I hate it - and
you needn't look so!"
The senior partner was regarding the rebel with grave-eyed
reproach.
"I thought you did," said I. "I don't suppose American girls are
much different from English ones in instinct."
"Isn't it Theophile Gautier who says that the only difference
between country and country lie in the slang and the uniform of
the police?"
Now, in the name of all the gods at once, what is one to say to a
young lady (who in England would be a person) who earns her own
bread, and very naturally hates the employ, and slings
out-of-the-way quotations at your head?
