He did not ask me to sit down, the way his father always had.

He did not offer me a glass of water.

He stood behind the great mahogany desk where Mr.

Christopher used to sit, and he slid a thin paper envelope across the polished wood toward me.

“We won’t be needing your services any longer, Helena,” he said, in the bored tone of a man canceling a subscription.

“That’s four hundred dollars.