"Here ... here!" cried Jenny. "I can't understand if you talk
pidgin-English, Keith."

"Well ... you know what ravenous means? Hungry. And a woman of
title--you know what a lord is.... Well, and she's chasing about,
dropping little scented notes at every street corner for him."

"Oh they are _awful_!" cried Jenny. "Countesses! Always in the divorce
court, or something. Somebody ought to stop them. They don't have
countesses in America, do they? Why don't we have a republic, and get
rid of them all? If they'd got the floor to scrub they wouldn't have
time to do anything wrong."

"True," said Keith. "True. D'you like scrubbing floors?"

"No. But I do it. And keep my hands nice, too." The hands were inspected
and approved.

"But then you're more free than most people," Keith presently remarked,
in a tone of envy.

"Free!" exclaimed Jenny. "Me! In the millinery! When I've got to be
there every morning at nine sharp or get the sack, and often, busy
times, stick at it till eight or later, for a few bob a week. And never
have any time to myself except when I'm tired out! Who gets the fun?
Why, it's _all_ work, for people like me; all work for somebody else.
What d'you call being free? Aren't they free?"

"Not one. They're all tied up. Templecombe's hawk couldn't come on this