Tim was helpful. He had taken fares to an Agency
in Norfolk Street—an Agency for “Disturbed
Gentlewomen,” he called it; there took her one
morning.
“Distressed Gentlewomen,” she found the
brass plate to read—“The Norfolk
Street Agency for Distressed Gentlewomen.”
A lymphatic-looking young woman, assisting the growth
of a singularly stout face by sucking a sweet, and
wearing brown holland sleeve protectors hooked up
with enormous safety-pins, received her in the room
marked “Enquiries”; put her into that labelled
“Waiting.” Here were two copies of
the Christian Herald, some emigration pamphlets,
a carafe of water covered by an inverted tumbler dusty
with disuse, and three elderly females—presumably
gentlewomen, possibly distressed, but not advertising
either condition.
In due time her turn for the room marked “Private”;
interrogation by Miss Ram, a short, thin lady in black,
who bowed more frequently than she spoke, possessing
a range of inclinations of the head each of which
had unmistakable meaning.
Position sought?—Oh, anything; governess,
companion. Last situation? —None;
she was inexperienced. Capabilities?—Equally
lacking, as discovered by a probing cross-examination.
Salary required?—Oh, anything; whatever
was usual; a home—that was the chief
object in view.
Miss Ram entered the details in a severe-looking book
with a long thin pen—could hold out but
faint hopes. The applicants whom she was accustomed
to suit were “in nine and ninety cases out of
one hundred cases” accomplished in the domestic
or scholastic arts. However. Yes, Miss Humfray
should call every morning. Better still, stay
in the waiting-room. Be On the Spot—that
was the first requisite for success, as Miss Humfray
would find whether in a situation or awaiting a situation;
be On the Spot.
On the Spot. A nightmare week in the dingy waiting-room
... thoughts probing the mind, stabbing the heart....
Nine till one, a cup of tea and a roll at an A.B.C.
shop, an aimless walk in the park; two till six, good-night
to the stout young woman named Miss Porter in “Enquiries,”
home to the rattling mews and to Missus.
On the Spot. Occasional interviews. “Miss
Humfray, a lady will see you.” ... “Oh,
too young—far too young.” ...
“Thank you, that will do, Miss Humfray.”
... “Oh, not my style at all.” ...
“Thank you, that will do, Miss Humfray.”
On the Spot. Fortunately On the Spot one day—a
Mrs. Eyton-Eyton, as nursery governess, Streatham.
For a week very much On the Spot with Mrs. Eyton-Eyton.
Nursery governess was a comprehensive word in the
Eyton-Eyton vocabulary; covered every duty that in
a nursery must be performed. One must do the
nursery fire, sweep the nursery floor, bring up and
carry down the nursery meals—servants,
you see, object to waiting upon one whom, as Mrs.
Eyton-Eyton with a careless laugh pointed out, they
regard as one of themselves. Quickly the lesson
was appreciated that while a servant must never be
“put upon,” the same consideration need
not be extended to a lady. Servants are rare
in the market, young ladies cheap.
