“But,” continued Mrs. Trapes, and here she leaned forward to touch him with an impressive, toil-worn hand, “Hermy Chesterton’s jest a angel o’ light an’ purity; she always has been an’ always will be, but she knows about as much as a good girl can know.  She’s seen the worst o’ poverty, an’ she’s made up her mind, when she marries, to marry a man as is a man an’ can give her all the money she wants.  So y’ see it ain’t no good you wastin’ your time danglin’ around after her an’ sighin’—­now is it?”

“Why, no, Mrs. Trapes, I think I’ll speak to her to-night—­”

“My land! ain’t I jest been tryin’ to show you as you ain’t a fit or worthy party to speak, an’ as you won’t have a chance if you do speak, her ‘eart bein’ set on wealth?  But you can’t speak—­you won’t speak—­I know you won’t!”

“Why not?”

“First, because t’ night she’s away at Englewood makin’ a dress for Mrs. Crawley as is very fond of her.  An’ second, because you ain’t the man to ask a girl to marry him when he ain’t got nothin’ t’ keep her on—­you know you ain’t!”

“Which brings us back to the undoubted fact that I must get a job—­at once.”

“Hm!” said, Mrs. Trapes, viewing his clean-cut features and powerful figure with approval, “what could y’ do?”

“Anything, so long as I can make good, Mrs. Trapes.  What should you suggest?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Trapes, caressing an elbow thoughtfully, “grocers’ assistants makes good money—­an’ I know Mr. Smith wants a butterman.”

“Good,” nodded Ravenslee, “I should like to batter butter about—­”

“Are ye used to butter?”

“Oh, I’ve a decided taste for it!”

“Know much about it?”

“Certainly—­it is a yellowish, fatty substance concocted by human agency supposedly from the lacteous secretion of the graminivorous quadruped familiarly known as the common (or garden) cow.”

“Land sakes!” said Mrs. Trapes, drawing a deep breath, “you sure do know something about it.  Ever worked in it before?”

“Only with my teeth.”

“Oh—­quit your jollying, Mr. Geoffrey, if you want me t’ help you!”

“Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!”

“Well, then, there’s Jacob Pffeffenfifer wants a young man in his delicatessen store.”

“Mrs. Trapes, I can slice ham and beef with any one on earth.”

“D’ ye understand picklin’ and seasonin’?”

“Ah, there you have me again; I fear I don’t.”

“Then you ain’t no good to Jacob Pffeffenfifer!”

“On second thoughts, I’m not wholly sorry,” answered Ravenslee gravely.  “You see, a name like that would worry me, it would shake my nerve; I might cut beef instead of ham, or ham instead of—­”

“Mr. Geoffrey!” quoth Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows.

“Sober as a judge, Mrs. Trapes and—­by Jupiter!”

“My land!  What is it?”

“An idea—­look!” and Ravenslee pointed down into the yard.