"You seem to understand your business, my good woman," he began, unbuttoning his overcoat to get at the inside pocket of his cutaway.
"Why shouldn't I?
I been at it these twenty years." She had taken him in now, from his polished silk hat, gray hair, and red cheeks down to his check trousers, white spats, and well-brushed shoes.
Her own face was by this time wreathed in smiles; she saw the man was a gentleman who had intended only to be courteous.

"Is that what ye came to tell me ?" she cried.
"No, but I would have done so if I had ever watched you work.

Oh, here it is," he continued, drawing out his pocketbook.

"I want you to--" he stopped and looked at her from over the rims of his gold spectacles--"but I may not have hold of the right person.

May I ask if you belong here ?" Her head went up with a toss, her eyes dancing.