iably rouged she formed a disapproving opinion of that young
lady, which was that she was trying to land Willy Cameron, and that he
would be better dead than landed.

She met Edith's stare of surprise with one of thinly veiled hostility.

"Hello!" said Edith. "When did you blow in, and where from?"

"I came to see Mr. Cameron last night, and he made me stay."

"A friend of Willy's! Well, I guess you needn't pay for your breakfast
by cooking it. Mother's probably run out for something--she never has
anything in the house--and is talking somewhere. I'll take that fork."

But Ellen proceeded to turn the ham.

"I'll do it," she said. "You might spoil your hands."

But Edith showed no offense.

"All right," she acceded indifferently. "If you're going to eat it you'd
better cook it. We're rotten housekeepers here."

"I should think, if you're going to keep boarders, somebody would learn
to cook. Mr. Cameron's mother is the best housekeeper in town, and he
was raised on good food and plenty of it."

Her tone was truculent. Ellen's world, the world of short hours and
easy service, of the decorum of the Cardew servants' hall, of luxury
and dignity and good pay, had suddenly gone to pieces about her. She
was feeling very bitter, especially toward a certain chauffeur who had
prophesied the end of all service. He had made the statement that
before long all people would be equal. There would be no above and
below-stairs, no servants' hall.

"They'll drive their own cars, then, damn them," he had said once, "if
they can get any to drive. And answer their own bells, if they've got
any to ring. And get up and cook their own breakfasts."

"Which you won't have any to cook," Grayson had said irritably, from
the head of the long table. "Just a word, my man. That sort of talk is
forbidden here. One word more and I go to Mr. Cardew."

The chauffeur had not sulked, however. "All right, Mr. Grayson," he said
affably. "But I can go on thinking, I daresay. And some of these days
you'll be wishing you'd climbed on the band wagon before it's too late."

Ellen, turning the ham carefully, was conscious that her revolt had been
only partially on Lily's account. It was not so much Lily's plight
as the abuse of power, although she did not put it that way, that had
driven her out. Ellen then had carried out her own small revolution, and
where had it put her? She had lost a good home, and what could she do?
All she knew was service.

Ed