My friend Macartney-Smith has working theories for everything.  He illustrated one of these the other day by relating something that happened in the Giralda apartment house, where he lives in a suite overlooking Central Park.  I do not remember whether he was expounding his notion that the apartment house has solved the question of co-operative housekeeping, or whether he was engaged in demonstrating certain propositions regarding the influence of the city on the country.  Since I have forgotten what it was intended to prove, the incident has seemed more interesting.  It is bad for a story to medicate it with a theory.  However, here are the facts as Macartney-Smith relates them with his Q.E.D. omitted.

I do not know [he began] by what accident or on what recommendation the manager of the Giralda brought a girl from Iowa to act as clerk and cashier in the restaurant.

The new cashier had lived in a town where there were differences in social standing, but no recognized distinctions, after you had left out the sedimentary poverty-stricken class.  She not only had no notions of the lines of social cleavage in a great apartment-house, but she had never heard of chaperonage, or those other indelicacies that go along with the high civilization of a metropolis.  I have no doubt she was the best scholar in the arithmetic class in the village high school, and ten to one she was the champion at croquet.  She took life with a zest unknown to us New Yorkers, and let the starchiest people in the house know that she was glad to see them when they returned after an absence by going across the dining-room to shake hands with them and to inquire whether they had had a good time.  Even the gently frigid manner of Mrs. Drupe could not chill her friendliness; she was accustomed to accost that lady in the elevator, and demand, “How is Mr. Drupe?” whenever that gentleman chanced to be absent.  It was not possible for her to imagine that Mrs. Drupe could be otherwise than grateful for any manifestation of a friendly interest in her husband.

To show any irritation was not Mrs. Drupe’s way; that would have disturbed the stylish repose of her bearing even more than misplaced cordiality.  She always returned the salutations of Miss Wakefield, but in a tone so neutral, cool, and cucumberish that she hoped the girl would feel rebuked and learn a little more diffidence, or at least learn that the Drupes did not care for her acquaintance.  But the only result of such treatment was that Miss Wakefield would say to the clerk in the office:  “Your Eastern people have such stiff ways that they make me homesick.  But they don’t mean any harm, I suppose.”

Some of the families in the Giralda rather liked the new cashier; these were they who had children.  The little children chatted and laughed with her across her desk when they came down as forerunners to give the order for the family dinner.  If it were only lunch time, when few people were in the restaurant, they went behind the desk and embraced the cashier and had a romp with her.  The smallest chaps she would take up in her arms while she pulled out the drawers to show them her paper knife and trinkets; and when there were flowers, she would often break off one apiece for even those least amiable little plagues that in an apartment house are the torment of their nurses and their mammas the livelong day.  This not only gave pleasure to the infantry, but relieved an aching which the poor girl had for a once cheerful home, now broken up by the death of her parents and the scattering abroad of brothers and sisters.

The young men in the house thought her “a jolly girl,” since she would chat with them over her desk as freely as she would have chatted across the counter with the clerks in Cedar Falls, where she came from.  She was equally cordial with the head waiter, and with those of his staff who knew any more English than was indispensable to the taking of an order.  But her frank familiarity with young gentlemen and friendly speech with servants were offensive to some of the ladies.  They talked it over, and decided that Miss Wakefield was not a modest girl; that at least she did not know her place, and that the manager ought to dismiss her if he meant to maintain the tone of the house.  The manager - poor fellow! - had to hold his own place against the rivalry of the treasurer, and when such complaints were made to him what could he do?  He stood out a while for Miss Wakefield, whom he liked; but when the influential Mrs. Drupe wrote to him that the cashier at the desk in the restaurant was not a well-behaved girl, he knew that it was time to look out for another.

If the manager had forewarned her, she could have saved money enough to take her back to Iowa, where she might dare to be as friendly as she pleased with other respectable humans without fear of reproach.  But he was not such a fool as to let go of one cashier till he had found another.  It was while the manager was deciding which of three other young women to take that Mr. Drupe was stricken with apoplexy.  He had finished eating his luncheon, which was served in the apartment, and had lighted a cigar, when he fell over.  There were no children, and the Drupes kept no servant, but depended on the housekeeper to send them a maid when they required one, so that Mrs. Drupe found herself alone with her prostrate husband.  The distracted wife did not know what to do.  She took hold of the needle of the teleseme, but the words on the dial were confused; she quickly moved the needle round over the whole twenty-four points, but none of them suited the case.  She stopped it at “porter,” moved it to “bootblack,” carried it around to “ice water,” and successively to “coupe,” “laundress,” and “messenger-boy,” and then gave up in despair, and jerked open the door that led to the hall.  Miss Wakefield had just come up to the next apartment to inquire after a little girl ill from a cold, and was returning toward the elevator when Mrs. Drupe’s wild face was suddenly thrust forth upon her.

“Won’t you call a boy - somebody?  My husband is dying,” were the words that greeted Miss Wakefield at the moment of the apparition of the despairing face.

Miss Wakefield rushed past Mrs. Drupe into the apartment, and turned the teleseme to the word “manager,” and then pressed the button three times in quick succession.  She knew that a call for the manager would suggest fire, robbery, and sudden death, and that it would wake up the lethargic forces in the office.  Then she turned to the form of the man lying prostrate on the floor, seized a pillow from the lounge, and motioned to Mrs. Drupe to raise his head while she laid it beneath.

“Who is your doctor?” she demanded.

“Dr. Morris; but it’s a mile away,” said the distracted woman.  “Won’t you send a boy in a coupe”

“I’ll go myself, the boys are so slow,” said the cashier.  “Shall I send you a neighboring doctor till Dr. Morris can get here?”

“Do! do!” pleaded the wife, now wildly wringing her hands.

Miss Wakefield caught the elevator as it landed the manager on the floor, and she briefly told him what was the matter.  Then she descended, and had the clerk order a coupe by telephone, and then herself sent Dr. Floyd from across the street, while she ran to the stable, leaped into the coupe before the horse was fairly hitched up, and drove for Dr. Morris.

Dr. Morris found Mrs. Drupe already a widow when he arrived with the cashier.  The latter promptly secured the addresses of Mr. Drupe’s brother and of his business partner, again entered the coupe, and soon had the poor woman in the hands of her friends.

The energetic girl went to her room that night exhilarated by her own prompt and kind-hearted action.  But the evil spirit that loves to mar our happiness had probably arranged it that on that very evening she received a note from the manager notifying her that her services would not be required after one more week.  On inquiry the next day she learned that some of the ladies had complained of her behavior, and she vainly tried to remember what she had done that was capable of misconstruction.  She also vainly tried to imagine how she was to live, or by what means she was to contrive to get back to those who knew her too well to suspect her of any evil.  She was so much perplexed by the desperate state of her own affairs that she even neglected to attend Mr. Drupe’s funeral, but she hoped that Mrs. Drupe would not take it unkindly.

It was with a heavy heart that the manager called Miss Wakefield into his office on the ground floor in order that he might pay her last week’s wages.  He was relieved that she seemed to accept her dismissal with cheerfulness.

“What are you going to do?” he asked timidly.

“Why, didn’t you know?” she said.  “I am to live with Mrs. Drupe as a companion, and to look out for her affairs and collect her rents.  I used to think she didn’t like me.  But it will be a good lesson to those ladies who found fault with me for nothing when they see how much Mrs. Drupe thinks of me.”

And she went her way to her new home in Mrs. Drupe’s apartment, at the end of the hall on the sixth floor, while the manager took from a pigeonhole Mrs. Drupe’s letter of complaint against the former cashier, and read it over carefully.

The thickness of the walls at the base of so lofty a building made it difficult for daylight to work its way through the tunnel-like windows, so that in this office a gas jet was necessary in the daytime.  After a moment’s reflection the manager touched Mrs. Drupe’s letter of complaint to the flame, and it was presently reduced to everlasting illegibility.