Of medium height, spare, thin chested and thin lipped, her hair already streaked with grey, Emily had been less a servant than a grimly devoted friend.

Since Ethel's departure, she had been head-waitress at the small hotel.
"Emily will come," thought Ethel, "unless she's dead or paralysed." And Emily came.
"Well, Miss Ethel, here I am," she said on her arrival.

She said, "Miss Ethel" quite naturally, although she had always said "Ethel" before.
But her tone made it sound like, "Well, kid, here I am.

Now let's see what kind of a mess it is you want me to get you out of." With the aid of a book entitled, "How To Live Well On Little," together they puzzled and contrived.
"The things that have gone on in this kitchen," Emily muttered more than once, as her sharp grey eyes peered here and there, now into drawers and closets, now at the many unpaid bills.

"When that cook of yours wasn't grafting she must have been getting drunk on your wine." As the record was unfolded of years of careless extravagance, Ethel would frown and turn away, for it seemed disloyal to pry so deep.