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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/453-h.zip b/453-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca4de80 --- /dev/null +++ b/453-h.zip diff --git a/453-h/453-h.htm b/453-h/453-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c60cda --- /dev/null +++ b/453-h/453-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8100 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Emma McChesney & Co., by Edna Ferber +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter { text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Emma McChesney & Co., by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Emma McChesney & Co. + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Posting Date: August 30, 2008 [EBook #453] +Release Date: March, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA MCCHESNEY & CO. *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Edna Ferber +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">A CLOSER CORPORATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">BLUE SERGE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">"HOOPS, MY DEAR!"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">AN ETUDE FOR EMMA</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES +</H3> + +<P> +The door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY" was closed. T. A. Buck, president of +the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily down the hall, +stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a spicy bit of news at +his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before the first syllable is +voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy. Keep out." +</P> + +<P> +"She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly. Then he +turned the knob and entered his partner's office. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she was +poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up in a +maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression that, +while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye was still on +the letter. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew it," said T. A. Buck morosely. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down—now that you're in. And if you expect me to say, 'Knew +what?' you're doomed to disappointment." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his walking +stick on which he leaned. +</P> + +<P> +"Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest scrawl +from your son. One would think Jock's letters were deathless +masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour intervals all week, +and on Sunday get 'em all out and play solitaire with them." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney's smile widened frankly to a grin. +</P> + +<P> +"You make me feel like a cash-girl who's been caught flirting with the +elevator starter. Have I been neglecting business?" +</P> + +<P> +"Business? No; you've been neglecting me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, T. A., you've just come from the tailor's, and I suppose it +didn't fit in the back." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't that," interrupted Buck, "and you know it. Look here! That +day Jock went away and we came back to the office, and you said——" +</P> + +<P> +"I know I said it, T. A., but don't remind me of it. That wasn't a +fair test. I had just seen Jock leave me to take his own place in the +world. You know that my day began and ended with him. He was my +reason for everything. When I saw him off for Chicago that day, and +knew he was going there to stay, it seemed a million miles from New +York. I was blue and lonely and heart-sick. If the office-boy had +thrown a kind word to me I'd have broken down and wept on his shoulder." +</P> + +<P> +Buck, still standing, looked down between narrowed lids at his business +partner. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma McChesney," he said steadily, "do you mean that?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney, the straightforward, looked up, looked down, fiddled +with the letter in her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Well—practically yes—that is—I thought, now that you're going to +the mountains for a month, it might give me a chance to think—to——" +</P> + +<P> +"And d'you know what I'll do meanwhile, out of revenge on the sex? +I've just ordered three suits of white flannel, and I shall break every +feminine heart in the camp, regardless— Oh, say, that's what I came in +to tell you! Guess whom I saw at the tailor's?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mr. Bones, whom did you, and so forth?" +</P> + +<P> +"Fat Ed Meyers. I just glimpsed him in one of the fitting-rooms. And +they were draping him in white." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney sat up with a jerk. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sure?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure? There's only one figure like that. He had the thing on and was +surveying himself in the mirror—or as much of himself as could be seen +in one ordinary mirror. In that white suit, with his red face above +it, he looked like those pictures you see labeled, 'Sunrise on +Snow-covered Mountain.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Did he see——" +</P> + +<P> +"He dodged when he saw me. Actually! At least, he seems to have the +decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he left us flat in +the thick of his Middle Western trip and went back to the Sans-Silk +Skirt Company. I wanted him to know I had seen him. As I passed, I +said, 'You'll mow 'em down in those clothes, Meyers.'" Buck sat down +in his leisurely fashion, and laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't +you see him, Emma, at the seashore?" +</P> + +<P> +But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set, +unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was +staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him. There +was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of complete +detachment, which always enveloped her when her lightning mind was +leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the slower thinking. +</P> + +<P> +"What's your tailor's name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Name? Trotter. Why?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish. +</P> + +<P> +"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double-t-e-r. Say I want to speak +to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what in the +name of——" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one of my +hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through the same +territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk Skirt people. +It didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed hadn't the decency to +be ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter how raw. And let me tell +you, T. A.: If he dodged when he saw you it wasn't because he was +ashamed of having played us low-down. He was contemplating playing +lower-down. Of course, I may be——" +</P> + +<P> +She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, her +calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones: +</P> + +<P> +"Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure that +the grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. What? Oh, +you say you assured him it was the weight of flannel you always advise +for South America. And you said they'd be ready when? Next week? +Thank you." +</P> + +<P> +She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Her +cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood up, her +breath coming rather quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down to South +America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been planning to do +for the last six months. You remember I spoke of it. You pooh-poohed +the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Sans-Silk +people if they get it. But they won't get it." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck stood up suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Emma! If you're——" +</P> + +<P> +"I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has +been—well, you know what it's been for the last two years. The South +American boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes are promised +for next week. That means he isn't sailing until week after next. But +the next boat sails in three days." She picked up a piece of paper +from her desk and tossed it into Buck's hand. "That's the letter I was +reading when you came in. No; don't read it. Let me tell you instead." +</P> + +<P> +Buck threw cane, hat, gloves, and letter on the broad desk, thrust his +hands into his pockets, and prepared for argument. But he got only as +far as: "But I won't allow it! You couldn't get away in three days, +at any rate. And at the end of two weeks you'll have come to your +senses, and besides——" +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., I don't mean to be rude. But here are your hat and stick and +gloves. It's going to take me just forty-eight hours to mobilize." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Emma, even if you do get in ahead of Meyers, it's an insane idea. +A woman can't go down there alone. It isn't safe. It's bad enough for +a man to tackle it. Besides, we're holding our own." +</P> + +<P> +"That's just it. When a doctor issues a bulletin to the effect that +the patient is holding his own, you may have noticed that the relatives +always begin to gather." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a bubble, this South American idea. Oshkosh and Southport and +Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can keep that +trade, we ought to be thankful." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one gesture +and patted it into place with another. Those two gestures, to one who +knew her, meant loss of composure for one instant, followed by the +quick regaining of it the next. +</P> + +<P> +"Let's not argue about it now. Suppose we wait until to-morrow—when +it's too late. I am thankful for the trade we've got. But I don't +want to be narrow about it. My thanking capacity is such that I can +stretch it out to cover some things we haven't got yet. I've been +reading up on South America." +</P> + +<P> +"Reading!" put in Buck hotly. "What actual first-hand information can +you get about a country from books?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then, I haven't only been reading. I've been talking to +everyone I could lay my hands on who has been down there and who knows. +Those South American women love dress—especially the Argentines. And +do you know what they've been wearing? Petticoats made in England! You +know what that means. An English woman chooses a petticoat like she +does a husband—for life. It isn't only a garment. It's a shelter. +It's built like a tent. If once I can introduce the T. A. Buck +Featherloom petticoat and knickerbocker into sunny South America, +they'll use those English and German petticoats for linoleum +floor-coverings. Heaven knows they'll fit the floor better than the +human form!" +</P> + +<P> +But Buck was unsmiling. The muscles of his jaw were tense. +</P> + +<P> +"I won't let you go. Understand that! I won't allow it!" +</P> + +<P> +"Tut, tut, T. A.! What is this? Cave-man stuff?" +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, I tell you it's dangerous. It isn't worth the risk, no matter +what it brings us." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney struck an attitude, hand on heart. "'Heaven will +protect the working girrul,'" she sang. +</P> + +<P> +Buck grabbed his hat. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to wire Jock." +</P> + +<P> +"All right! That'll save me fifty cents. Do you know what he'll wire +back? 'Go to it. Get the tango on its native tairn'—or words to that +effect." +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, use a little logic and common sense!" +</P> + +<P> +There was a note in Buck's voice that brought a quick response from +Mrs. McChesney. She dropped her little air of gayety. The pain in his +voice, and the hurt in his eyes, and the pleading in his whole attitude +banished the smile from her face. It had not been much of a smile, +anyway. T. A. knew her genuine smiles well enough to recognize a +counterfeit at sight. And Emma McChesney knew that he knew. She came +over and laid a hand lightly on his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., I don't know anything about logic. It is a hot-house plant. +But common sense is a field flower, and I've gathered whole bunches of +it in my years of business experience. I'm not going down to South +America for a lark. I'm going because the time is ripe to go. I'm +going because the future of our business needs it. I'm going because +it's a job to be handled by the most experienced salesman on our staff. +And I'm just that. I say it because it's true. Your father, T. A., +used to see things straighter and farther than any business man I ever +knew. Since his death made me a partner in this firm, I find myself, +when I'm troubled or puzzled, trying to see a situation as he'd see it +if he were alive. It's like having an expert stand back of you in a +game of cards, showing you the next move. That's the way I'm playing +this hand. And I think we're going to take most of the tricks away +from Fat Ed Meyers." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck's eyes traveled from Emma McChesney's earnest, glowing face +to the hand that rested on his arm. He reached over and gently covered +that hand with his own. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you must be right, little woman. You always are. Dad was +the founder of this business. It was the pride of his life. That +word 'founder' has two meanings. I never want to be responsible for +its second meaning in connection with this concern." +</P> + +<P> +"You never will be, T. A." +</P> + +<P> +"Not with you at the helm." He smiled rather sadly. "I'm a good, +ordinary, common seaman. But you've got imagination, and foresight, +and nerve, and daring, and that's the stuff that admirals are made of." +</P> + +<P> +"Bless you, T. A.! I knew you'd see the thing as I do after the first +shock was over. It has always been nip and tuck between the Sans-Silk +Company and us. You gave me the hint that showed me their plans. Now +help me follow it up." +</P> + +<P> +Buck picked up his hat, squared his shoulders and fumbled with his +gloves like a bashful schoolboy. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you couldn't kill two birds with one stone on this trip, could +you, Mrs. Mack?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney, back at her desk again, threw him an inquiring glance +over her shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"You might make it a combination honeymoon and Featherloom expedition." +</P> + +<P> +"T. A. Buck!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. Then, as Buck dodged for the +door: "Just for that, I'm going to break this to you. You know that I +intended to handle the Middle Western territory for one trip, or until +we could get a man to take Fat Ed Meyers' place." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" said Buck apprehensively. +</P> + +<P> +"I leave in three days. Goodness knows how long I'll be gone! A +business deal down there is a ceremony. And—you won't need any +white-flannel clothes in Rock Island, Illinois." +</P> + +<P> +Buck, aghast, faced her from the doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean, I——" +</P> + +<P> +"Just that," smiled Emma McChesney pleasantly. And pressed the button +that summoned the stenographer. +</P> + +<P> +In the next forty-eight hours, Mrs. McChesney performed a series of +mental and physical calisthenics that would have landed an ordinary +woman in a sanatorium. She cleaned up with the thoroughness and +dispatch of a housewife who, before going to the seashore, forgets not +instructions to the iceman, the milkman, the janitor, and the maid. +She surveyed her territory, behind and before, as a general studies +troops and countryside before going into battle; she foresaw factory +emergencies, dictated office policies, made sure of staff organization +like the business woman she was. Out in the stock-room, under her +supervision, there was scientifically packed into sample-trunks and +cases a line of Featherloom skirts and knickers calculated to dazzle +Brazil and entrance Argentina. And into her own personal trunk there +went a wardrobe, each article of which was a garment with a purpose. +Emma McChesney knew the value of a smartly tailored suit in a business +argument. +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck canceled his order at the tailor's, made up his own line for +the Middle West, and prepared to storm that prosperous and important +territory for the first time in his business career. +</P> + +<P> +The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning +found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, last-minute +discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, took out a +leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to Buck. A tiny smile +quivered about her lips. Buck took it, mystified. +</P> + +<P> +"Your last diary?" +</P> + +<P> +"Something much more important. I call it 'The Salesman's Who's Who.' +Read it as you ought your Bible." +</P> + +<P> +"But what?" Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at a +paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly. +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +"Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt buyer. +Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her to dinner and +the theater." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He looked up, dazed. "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll buy only +your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and expect you to +entertain her as you would your rich aunt." +</P> + +<P> +Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another +leaf—another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He closed the book. "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to——" +</P> + +<P> +"Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, "and he +thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that business is a little +girl named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. Five years from now, if she +doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of those ten-thousand-a-year foreign +buyers. Play your samples up to Sammy, but quote your prices down to +Sadie. Read the next one, T. A." +</P> + +<P> +Buck read on, his tone lifeless: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Miss Sharp. Berg Brothers, Omaha. Strictly business. Known among +the trade as the human cactus. Canceled a ten-thousand-dollar order +once because the grateful salesman called her 'girlie.' Stick to +skirts." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Buck slapped the book smartly against the palm of his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to tell me that you made this book out for me? Do you +mean to say that I have to cram on this like a kid studying for exams? +That I'll have to cater to the personality of the person I'm selling +to? Why—it's—it's——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney nodded calmly. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know how this trip of yours is going to affect the firm's +business, T. A. But it's going to be a liberal education for you. +You'll find that you'll need that little book a good many times before +you're through. And while you're following its advice, do this: forget +that your name is Buck, except for business purposes; forget that your +family has always lived in a brownstone mausoleum in Seventy-second +street; forget that you like your chops done just so, and your wine at +such-and-such a temperature; get close to your trade. They're an +awfully human lot, those Middle Western buyers. Don't chuck them under +the chin, but smile on 'em. And you've got a lovely smile, T. A." +</P> + +<P> +Buck looked up from the little leather book. And, as he gazed at Emma +McChesney, the smile appeared and justified its praise. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have this to comfort me, anyway, Emma. I'll know that while I'm +smirking on the sprightly Miss Sweeney, your face will be undergoing +various agonizing twists in the effort to make American prices +understood by an Argentine who can't speak anything but Spanish." +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe I am short on Spanish, but I'm long on Featherlooms. I may not +know a senora from a chili con carne, but I know Featherlooms from the +waistband to the hem." She leaned forward, dimpling like fourteen +instead of forty. "And you've noticed—haven't you, T. A.?—that I've +got an expressive countenance." +</P> + +<P> +Buck leaned forward, too. His smile was almost gone. +</P> + +<P> +"I've noticed a lot of things, Emma McChesney. And if you persist in +deviling me for one more minute, I'm going to mention a few." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney surveyed her cleared desk, locked the top drawer with a +snap, and stood up. +</P> + +<P> +"If you do I'll miss my boat. Just time to make Brooklyn. Suppose you +write 'em." +</P> + +<P> +That Ed Meyers might know nothing of her sudden plans, she had kept the +trip secret. Besides Buck and the office staff, her son Jock was the +only one who knew. But she found her cabin stocked like a prima +donna's on a farewell tour. There were boxes of flowers, a package of +books, baskets of fruit, piles of magazines, even a neat little sheaf +of telegrams, one from the faithful bookkeeper, one from the workroom +foreman, two from salesmen long in the firm's employ, two from Jock in +Chicago. She read them, her face glowing. He and Buck had vied with +each other in supplying her with luxuries that would make pleasanter +the twenty-three days of her voyage. +</P> + +<P> +She looked about the snug cabin, her eyes suddenly misty. Buck poked +his head in at the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on up on deck, Emma; I've only a few minutes left." +</P> + +<P> +She snatched a pink rose from the box, and together they went on deck. +</P> + +<P> +"Just ten minutes," said Buck. He was looking down at her. "Remember, +Emma, nothing that concerns the firm's business, however big, is half +as important as the things that concern you personally, however small. +I realize what this trip will mean to us, if it pans, and if you can +beat Meyers to it. But if anything should happen to you, why——" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing's going to happen, T. A., except that I'll probably come home +with my complexion ruined. I'll feel a great deal more at home talking +pidgin-English to Senor Alvarez in Buenos Aires than you will talking +Featherlooms to Miss Skirt-Buyer in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. But remember +this, T. A.: When you get to know—really to know—the Sadie Harrises +and the Sammy Blochs and the Ella Sweeneys of this world, you've +learned just about all there is to know about human beings. Quick—the +gangplank! Goodby, T. A." +</P> + +<P> +The dock reached, he gazed up at her as she leaned far over the +railing. He made a megaphone of his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"I feel like an old maid who's staying home with her knitting," he +called. +</P> + +<P> +The boat began to move. Emma McChesney passed a quick hand over her +eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't drop any stitches, T. A." With unerring aim she flung the big +pink rose straight at him. +</P> + +<P> +She went about arranging her affairs on the boat like the business +woman that she was. First she made her cabin shipshape. She placed +nearest at hand the books on South America, and the Spanish-American +pocket interpreter. She located her deck chair, and her seat in the +dining-room. Then, quietly, unobtrusively, and guided by those years +spent in meeting men and women face to face in business, she took +thorough, conscientious mental stock of those others who were to be her +fellow travelers for twenty-three days. +</P> + +<P> +For the most part, the first-class passengers were men. There were +American business men—salesmen, some of them, promoters others, or +representatives of big syndicates shrewd, alert, well dressed, smooth +shaven. Emma McChesney knew that she would gain valuable information +from many of them before the trip was over. She sighed a little +regretfully as she thought of those smoking-room talks—those intimate, +tobacco-mellowed business talks from which she would be barred by her +sex. +</P> + +<P> +There were two engineers, one British, one American, both very +intelligent-looking, both inclined to taciturnity, as is often the case +in men of their profession. They walked a good deal, and smoked +nut-brown, evil-smelling pipes, and stared unblinkingly across the +water. +</P> + +<P> +There were Argentines—whole families of them—Brazilians, too. The +fat, bejeweled Brazilian men eyed Emma McChesney with open approval, +even talked to her, leering objectionably. Emma McChesney refused to +be annoyed. Her ten years on the road served her in good stead now. +</P> + +<P> +But most absorbing of all to Emma McChesney, watching quietly over her +book or magazine, was a tall, erect, white-bearded Argentine who, with +his family, occupied chairs near hers. His name had struck her with +the sound of familiarity when she read it on the passenger list. She +had asked the deck-steward to point out the name's owner. "Pages," she +repeated to herself, worriedly, "Pages? P——" Suddenly she knew. +Pages y Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop—a shop +finer than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom +instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there, +seething. +</P> + +<P> +That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she had +bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of the +Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of one of those +dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men whose likeness graces +the cover of a box of your favorite cigars. +</P> + +<P> +General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with a +revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like most of +the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora Pages, very fat, +very indolent, very blank, much given to pink satin and diamonds at +dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered, overfrizzed, marvelously +gowned, with overplumpness just a few years away, sat quietly by Senora +Pages' side, but her darting, flashing, restless eyes were never still. +The son (Emma heard them call him Pepe) was barely eighteen, she +thought, but quite a man of the world, with his cigarettes, his drinks, +his bold eyes. She looked at his sallow, pimpled skin, his lean, brown +hands, his lack-luster eyes, and she thought of Jock and was happy. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney knew that she might visit the magnificent Buenos Aires +shop of Pages y Hernandez day after day for months without ever +obtaining a glimpse of either Pages or Hernandez. And here was Senor +Pages, so near that she could reach out and touch him from her deck +chair. Here was opportunity! A caller who had never been obliged to +knock twice at Emma McChesney's door. +</P> + +<P> +Her methods were so simple that she herself smiled at them. She donned +her choicest suit of white serge that she had been saving for shore +wear. Its skirt had been cut by the very newest trick. Its coat was +the kind to make you go home and get out your own white serge and gaze +at it with loathing. Senorita Pages' eyes leaped to that suit as iron +leaps to the magnet. Emma McChesney, passing her deck chair, detached +the eyes with a neat smile. Why hadn't she spent six months neglecting +Skirts for Spanish? she asked herself, groaning. As she approached her +own deck chair again she risked a bright, "Good morning." Her heart +bounded, stood still, bounded again, as from the lips of the assembled +Pages there issued a combined, courteous, perfectly good American, +"Good morning!" +</P> + +<P> +"You speak English!" Emma McChesney's tone expressed flattery and +surprise. +</P> + +<P> +Pages pere made answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes, it is necessary. There are many English in Argentina." +</P> + +<P> +A sigh—a fluttering, tremulous sigh of perfect peace and +happiness—welled up from Emma McChesney's heart and escaped through +her smiling lips. +</P> + +<P> +By noon, Senorita Pages had tried on the fascinating coat and secured +the address of its builder. By afternoon, Emma McChesney was showing +the newest embroidery stitch to the slow but docile Senora Pages. Next +morning she was playing shuffleboard with the elegant, indolent Pepe, +and talking North American football and baseball to him. She had not +been Jock McChesney's mother all those years for nothing. She could +discuss sports with the best of them. Young Pages was avidly +interested. Outdoor sports had become the recent fashion among the +rich young Argentines. +</P> + +<P> +The problem of papa Pages was not so easy. Emma McChesney approached +her subject warily, skirting the bypaths of politics, war, climate, +customs—to business. Business! +</P> + +<P> +"But a lady as charming as you can understand nothing of business," +said Senor Pages. "Business is for your militant sisters." +</P> + +<P> +"But we American women do understand business. Many—many charming +American women are in business." +</P> + +<P> +Senor Pages turned his fine eyes upon her. She had talked most +interestingly, this pretty American woman. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps—but pardon me if I think not. A woman cannot be really +charming and also capable in business." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney dimpled becomingly. +</P> + +<P> +"But I know a woman who is as—well, as charming as you say I am. +Still, she is known as a capable, successful business woman. She'll +be in Buenos Aires when I am." +</P> + +<P> +Senor Pages shook an unbelieving head. Emma McChesney leaned forward. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you let me bring her in to meet you, just to prove my point?" +</P> + +<P> +"She must be as charming as you are." His Argentine betting +proclivities rose. "Here; we shall make a wager!" He took a card from +his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it to Emma McChesney. "You will +please present that to my secretary, who will conduct you immediately +to my office. We will pretend it is a friendly call. Your friend need +not know. If I lose——" +</P> + +<P> +"If you lose, you must promise to let her show you her sample line." +</P> + +<P> +"But, dear madam, I do no buying." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you must introduce her favorably to the department buyer of her +sort of goods." +</P> + +<P> +"But if I win?" persisted Senor Pages. +</P> + +<P> +"If she isn't as charming as—as you say I am, you may make your own +terms." +</P> + +<P> +Senor Pages' fine eyes opened wide. +</P> + +<P> +It was on the fourteenth day of their trip that they came into quaint +Bahia. The stay there was short. Brazilian business methods are +long. Emma McChesney took no chances with sample-trunks or cases. She +packed her three leading samples into her own personal suitcase, eluded +the other tourists, secured an interpreter, and prepared to brave +Bahia. She returned just in time to catch the boat, flushed, tired, +and orderless. Bahia would have none of her. +</P> + +<P> +In three days they would reach Rio de Janeiro, the magnificent. They +would have three days there. She told herself that Bahia didn't count, +anyway—sleepy little half-breed town! But the arrow rankled. It had +been the first to penetrate the armor of her business success. But she +had learned things from that experience at Bahia. She had learned that +the South American dislikes the North American because his Northern +cousin patronizes him. She learned that the North American business +firm is thought by the Southern business man to be tricky and +dishonest, and that, because the Northerner has not learned how to pack +a case of goods scientifically, as have the English, Germans, and +French, the South American rages to pay cubic-feet rates on boxes that +are three-quarters empty. +</P> + +<P> +So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced Rio de +Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset splashing the bay +and the hills in the foreground and the Sugar-loaf Mountain with an +unbelievable riot of crimson and gold and orange and blue. Suddenly +the sun jerked down, as though pulled by a string, and the magic purple +night came up as though pulled by another. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney thankfully. +</P> + +<P> +Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart heavy, +her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. Three days in +Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, quick-thinking, +quick-acting North American business head up against the stone wall of +South American leisureliness and prejudice. She meant no irreverence, +no impiety as she prayed, meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into +her personal bag: +</P> + +<P> +"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help me to +land Rio and Buenos Aires!" +</P> + +<P> +Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a prayer in +her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, she made her way +to the dock, through the customs, into a cab that was to take her to +her arena, the broad Avenida. +</P> + +<P> +Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a +well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was +running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get there. +She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of modishly crippling +skirt, past officers, past customs officials, into the section where +stood the one small sample-trunk that she had ordered down in case of +emergency. The trunk had not gone through the customs. It had not +even been opened. But Emma McChesney heeded not trifles like that. +Rio de Janeiro had fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos. +79, 65, and 48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before +seen in Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a +hungry lion. Rio wanted more! +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her key, +unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted from the +trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers choosing unerringly, +when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, "It is forbidden!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the +depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word, "PROHIBA!" +</P> + +<P> +"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking. +</P> + +<P> +"INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a superhuman effort, +as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden with Featherloom samples of +rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney slammed down the trunk top, locked it, clutched her +samples firmly, and faced the enraged official. +</P> + +<P> +"Go 'way! I haven't time to be arrested this morning. This is my busy +day. Call around this evening." +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon she fled to her waiting cab, leaving behind her a Brazilian +official stunned and raging by turns. +</P> + +<P> +When she returned, happy, triumphant, order-laden, he was standing +there, stunned no longer but raging still. Emma McChesney had +forgotten all about him. The gold-braided official advanced, +mustachios bristling. A volley of Portuguese burst from his long-pent +lips. Emma McChesney glanced behind her. Her interpreter threw up +helpless hands, replying with a still more terrifying burst of vowels. +Bewildered, a little frightened, Mrs. McChesney stood helplessly by. +The official laid a none too gentle hand on her shoulder. A little +group of lesser officials stood, comic-opera fashion, in the +background. And then Emma McChesney's New York training came to her +aid. She ignored the voluble interpreter. She remained coolly +unruffled by the fusillade of Portuguese. Quietly she opened her hand +bag and plunged her fingers deep, deep therein. Her blue eyes gazed +confidingly up into the Brazilian's snapping black ones, and as she +withdrew her hand from the depths of her purse, there passed from her +white fingers to his brown ones that which is the Esperanto of the +nations, the universal language understood from Broadway to Brazil. +The hand on her shoulder relaxed and fell away. +</P> + +<P> +On deck once more, she encountered the suave Senor Pages. He stood at +the rail surveying Rio's shores with that lip-curling contempt of the +Argentine for everything Brazilian. He regarded Emma McChesney's +radiant face. +</P> + +<P> +"You are pleased with this—this Indian Rio?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney paused to gaze with him at the receding shores. +</P> + +<P> +"Like it! I'm afraid I haven't seen it. From here it looks like +Coney. But it buys like Seattle. Like it! Well, I should say I do!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, senora," exclaimed Pages, distressed, "wait! In six days you will +behold Buenos Aires. Your New York, Londres, Paris—bah! You shall +drive with my wife and daughter through Palermo. You shall see jewels, +motors, toilettes as never before. And you will visit my +establishment?" He raised an emphatic forefinger. "But surely!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney regarded him solemnly. +</P> + +<P> +"I promise to do that. You may rely on me." +</P> + +<P> +Six days later they swept up the muddy and majestic Plata, whose color +should have won it the name of River of Gold instead of River of +Silver. From the boat's upper deck, Emma McChesney beheld a sky line +which was so like the sky line of her own New York that it gave her a +shock. She was due for still another shock when, an hour later, she +found herself in a maelstrom of motors, cabs, street cars, newsboys, +skyscrapers, pedestrians, policemen, subway stations. Where was the +South American languor? Where the Argentine inertia? The rush and +roar of it, the bustle and the bang of it made the twenty-three-day +voyage seem a myth. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to shut my eyes," she told herself, "and then open them +quickly. If that little brown traffic-policeman turns out to be a big, +red-faced traffic-policeman, then I'm right, and this IS Broadway and +Forty-second." +</P> + +<P> +Shock number three came upon her entrance at the Grande Hotel. It had +been Emma McChesney's boast that her ten years on the road had +familiarized her with every type, grade, style, shape, cut, and mold of +hotel clerk. She knew him from the Knickerbocker to the Eagle House at +Waterloo, Iowa. At the moment she entered the Grande Hotel, she knew +she had overlooked one. Accustomed though she was to the sartorial +splendors of the man behind the desk, she might easily have mistaken +this one for the president of the republic. In his glittering uniform, +he looked a pass between the supreme chancellor of the K.P.'s in full +regalia and a prince of India during the Durbar. He was regal. He was +overwhelming. He would have made the most splendid specimen of North +American hotel clerk look like a scullery boy. Mrs. McChesney spent +two whole days in Buenos Aires before she discovered that she could +paralyze this personage with a peso. A peso is forty-three cents. +</P> + +<P> +Her experience at Bahia and at Rio de Janeiro had taught her things. +So for two days, haunted, as she was, by visions of Fat Ed Meyers +coming up close behind her, she possessed her soul in patience and +waited. On the great firm of Pages y Hernandez rested the success of +this expedition. When she thought of her little trick on Senor Pages, +her blithe spirits sank. Suppose, after all, that this powerful South +American should resent her little Yankee joke! +</P> + +<P> +Her trunks went through the customs. She secured an interpreter. She +arranged her samples with loving care. Style, cut, workmanship—she +ran over their strong points in her mind. She looked at them as a +mother's eyes rest fondly on the shining faces, the well-brushed hair, +the clean pinafores of her brood. And her heart swelled with pride. +They lay on their tables, the artful knickerbockers, the gleaming +petticoats, the pink and blue pajamas, the bifurcated skirts. Emma +McChesney ran one hand lightly over the navy blue satin folds of a +sample. +</P> + +<P> +"Pages or no Pages, you're a credit to your mother," she said, +whimsically. +</P> + +<P> +Up in her room once more, she selected her smartest tailor costume, her +most modish hat, the freshest of gloves and blouses. +</P> + +<P> +She chose the hours between four and six, when wheel traffic was +suspended in the Calle Florida and throughout the shopping-district, +the narrow streets of which are congested to the point of suffocation +at other times. +</P> + +<P> +As she swung down the street they turned to gaze after her—these +Argentines. The fat senoras turned, and the smartly costumed, sallow +senoritas, and the men—all of them. They spoke to her, these last, +but she had expected that, and marched on with her free, swinging +stride, her chin high, her color very bright. Into the great shop of +Pages y Hernandez at last, up to the private offices, her breath coming +a little quickly, into the presence of the shiny secretary—shiny +teeth, shiny hair, shiny skin, shiny nails. He gazed upon Emma +McChesney, the shine gleaming brighter. He took in his slim, brown +fingers the card on which Senor Pages had scribbled that day on board +ship. The shine became dazzling. He bowed low and backed his way into +the office of Senor Pages. +</P> + +<P> +A successful man is most impressive when in those surroundings which +have been built up by his success. On shipboard, Senor Pages had been +a genial, charming, distinguished fellow passenger. In his luxurious +business office he still was genial, charming, but his environment +seemed to lend him a certain austerity. +</P> + +<P> +"Senora McChesney!" +</P> + +<P> +("How awful that sounds!" Emma McChesney told herself.) +</P> + +<P> +"We spoke of you but last night. And now you come to win the wager, +yes?" He smiled, but shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," replied Emma McChesney. And tried to smile, too. +</P> + +<P> +Senor Pages waved a hand toward the outer office. +</P> + +<P> +"She is with you, this business friend who is also so charming?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," said Emma McChesney, "she's—she's with me." Then, as he +made a motion toward the push-button, which would summon the secretary: +"No, don't do that! Wait a minute!" From her bag she drew her business +card, presented it. "Read that first." +</P> + +<P> +Senor Pages read it. He looked up. Then he read it again. He gazed +again at Emma McChesney. Emma McChesney looked straight at him and +tried in vain to remember ever having heard of the South American's +sense of humor. A moment passed. Her heart sank. Then Senor Pages +threw back his fine head and laughed—laughed as the Latin laughs, +emphasizing his mirth with many ejaculations and gestures. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you Northerners! You are too quick for us. Come; I myself must +see this garment which you honor by selling." His glance rested +approvingly on Emma McChesney's trim, smart figure. "That which you +sell, it must be quite right." +</P> + +<P> +"I not only sell it," said Emma McChesney; "I wear it." +</P> + +<P> +"That—how is it you Northerners say?—ah, yes—that settles it!" +</P> + +<P> +Six weeks later, in his hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, T. A. Buck sat +reading a letter forwarded from New York and postmarked Argentina. As +he read he chuckled, grew serious, chuckled again and allowed his cigar +to grow cold. +</P> + +<P> +For the seventh time: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +DEAR T. A.: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +They've fallen for Featherlooms the way an Eskimo takes to gum-drops. +My letter of credit is all shot to pieces, but it was worth it. They +make you pay a separate license fee in each province, and South America +is just one darn province after another. If they'd lump a peddler's +license for $5,000 and tell you to go ahead, it would be cheaper. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I landed Pages y Hernandez by a trick. The best of it is the man I +played it on saw the point and laughed with me. We North Americans +brag too much about our sense of humor. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I thought ten years on the road had hardened me to the most fiendish +efforts of a hotel chef. But the food at the Grande here makes a +quarter-inch round steak with German fried look like Sherry's latest +triumph. You know I'm not fussy. I'm the kind of woman who, given her +choice of ice cream or cheese for dessert, will take cheese. Here, +given my choice, I play safe and take neither. I've reached the point +where I make a meal of radishes. They kill their beef in the morning +and serve it for lunch. It looks and tastes like an Ethiop's ear. But +I don't care, because I'm getting gorgeously thin. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +If the radishes hold out I'll invade Central America and Panama. I've +one eye on Valparaiso already. I know it sounds wild, but it means a +future and a fortune for Featherlooms. I find I don't even have to +talk skirts. They're self-sellers. But I have to talk honesty and +packing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +How did you hit it off with Ella Sweeney? Haven't seen a sign of Fat +Ed Meyers. I'm getting nervous. Do you think he may have exploded at +the equator? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> + EMMA.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +But kind fortune saw fit to add a last sweet drop to Emma McChesney's +already brimming cup. As she reached the docks on the day of her +departure, clad in cool, crisp white from hat to shoes, her quick eye +spied a red-faced, rotund, familiar figure disembarking from the New +York boat, just arrived. The fates, grinning, had planned this moment +like a stage-manager. Fat Ed Meyers came heavily down the gangplank. +His hat was off. He was mopping the top of his head with a large, damp +handkerchief. His gaze swept over the busy landing-docks, darted +hither and thither, alighted on Emma McChesney with a shock, and rested +there. A distinct little shock went through that lady, too. But she +waited at the foot of her boat's gangway until the unbelievably nimble +Meyers reached her. +</P> + +<P> +He was a fiery spectacle. His cheeks were distended, his eyes +protuberant. He wasted no words. They understood each other, those +two. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming or going?" +</P> + +<P> +"Going," replied Emma McChesney. +</P> + +<P> +"Clean up this—this Bonez Areez, too?" +</P> + +<P> +"Absolutely." +</P> + +<P> +"Did, huh?" +</P> + +<P> +Meyers stood a moment panting, his little eyes glaring into her calm +ones. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I beat you in Bahia, anyway." he boasted. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney snapped her fingers blithely. +</P> + +<P> +"Bah, for Bahia!" She took a step or two up the gangplank, and turned. +"Good-by, Ed. And good luck. I can recommend the radishes, but pass +up the beef. Dangerous." +</P> + +<P> +Fat Ed Meyers, still staring, began to stutter unintelligibly, his lips +moving while no words came. Emma McChesney held up a warning hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't do that, Ed! Not in this climate! A man of your build, too! +I'm surprised. Consider the feelings of your firm!" +</P> + +<P> +Fat Ed Meyers glared up at the white-clad, smiling, gracious figure. +His hands unclenched. The words came. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, if only you were a man for just ten minutes!" he moaned. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY +</H3> + +<P> +It was Fat Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, who first said +that Mrs. Emma McChesney was the Maude Adams of the business world. It +was on the occasion of his being called to the carpet for his failure +to make Sans-silks as popular as Emma McChesney's famed Featherlooms. +He spoke in self-defense, heatedly. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't Featherlooms. It's McChesney. Her line is no better than +ours. It's her personality, not her petticoats. She's got a following +that swears by her. If Maude Adams was to open on Broadway in 'East +Lynne,' they'd flock to see her, wouldn't they? Well, Emma McChesney +could sell hoop-skirts, I'm telling you. She could sell bustles. She +could sell red-woolen mittens on Fifth Avenue!" +</P> + +<P> +The title stuck. +</P> + +<P> +It was late in September when Mrs. McChesney, sunburned, decidedly +under weight, but gloriously triumphant, returned from a four months' +tour of South America. Against the earnest protests of her business +partner, T. A. Buck, president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, she had invaded the southern continent and left it abloom with +Featherlooms from the Plata to the Canal. +</P> + +<P> +Success was no stranger to Mrs. McChesney. This last business victory +had not turned her head. But it had come perilously near to tilting +that extraordinarily well-balanced part. A certain light in her eyes, +a certain set of her chin, an added briskness of bearing, a cocky slant +of the eyebrow revealed the fact that, though Mrs. McChesney's feet +were still on the ground, she might be said to be standing on tiptoe. +</P> + +<P> +When she had sailed from Brooklyn pier that June afternoon, four months +before, she had cast her ordinary load of business responsibilities on +the unaccustomed shoulders of T. A. Buck. That elegant person, although +president of the company which his father had founded, had never been +its real head. When trouble threatened in the workroom, it was to Mrs. +McChesney that the forewoman came. When an irascible customer in +Green Bay, Wisconsin, waxed impatient over the delayed shipment of a +Featherloom order, it was to Emma McChesney that his typewritten +protest was addressed. When the office machinery needed mental oiling, +when a new hand demanded to be put on silk-work instead of mercerized, +when a consignment of skirt-material turned out to be more than usually +metallic, it was in Mrs. Emma McChesney's little private office that +the tangle was unsnarled. +</P> + +<P> +She walked into that little office, now, at nine o'clock of a brilliant +September morning. It was a reassuring room, bright, orderly, +workmanlike, reflecting the personality of its owner. She stood in the +center of it now and looked about her, eyes glowing, lips parted. She +raised her hands high above her head, then brought them down to her +sides again with an unconsciously dramatic gesture that expressed +triumph, peace, content, relief, accomplishment, and a great and deep +satisfaction. T. A. Buck, in the doorway, saw the gesture—and +understood. +</P> + +<P> +"Not so bad to get back to it, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bad! It's like a drink of cool spring water after too much champagne. +In those miserable South American hotels, how I used to long for the +orderliness and quiet of this!" +</P> + +<P> +She took off hat and coat. In a vase on the desk, a cluster of yellow +chrysanthemums shook their shaggy heads in welcome. Emma McChesney's +quick eye jumped to them, then to Buck, who had come in and was +surveying the scene appreciatively. +</P> + +<P> +"You—of course." She indicated the flowers with a nod and a radiant +smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Sorry—no. The office staff did that. There's a card of welcome, I +believe." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said Emma McChesney. The smile was still there, but the radiance +was gone. +</P> + +<P> +She seated herself at her desk. Buck took the chair near by. She +unlocked a drawer, opened it, rummaged, closed it again, unlocked +another. She patted the flat top of her desk with loving fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't help it," she said, with a little shamed laugh; "I'm so glad +to be back. I'll probably hug the forewoman and bite a piece out of +the first Featherloom I lay hands on. I had to use all my self-control +to keep from kissing Jake, the elevator-man, coming up." +</P> + +<P> +Out of the corner of her eye, Emma McChesney had been glancing at her +handsome business partner. She had found herself doing the same thing +from the time he had met her at the dock late in the afternoon of the +day before. Those four months had wrought some subtle change. But +what? Where? She frowned a moment in thought. +</P> + +<P> +Then: +</P> + +<P> +"Is that a new suit, T. A.?" +</P> + +<P> +"This? Lord, no! Last summer's. Put it on because of this July +hangover in September. Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't know"—vaguely—"I just—wondered." +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing vague about T. A. Buck, however. His old air of +leisureliness was gone. His very attitude as he sat there, erect, +brisk, confident, was in direct contrast to his old, graceful indolence. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to go over the home grounds with you this morning," he said. +"Of course, in our talk last night, we didn't cover the South American +situation thoroughly. But your letters and the orders told the story. +You carried the thing through to success. It's marvelous! But we +stay-at-homes haven't been marking time during your absence." +</P> + +<P> +The puzzled frown still sat on Emma McChesney's brow. As though +thinking aloud, she said, +</P> + +<P> +"Have you grown thinner, or fatter or—something?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not an ounce. Weighed at the club yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +He leaned forward a little, his face suddenly very sober. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, I want to tell you now that—that mother—she—I lost her just a +few weeks after you sailed." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney gave a little cry. She came quickly over to him, and +one hand went to his shoulder as she stood looking down at him, her +face all sympathy and contrition and sorrow. +</P> + +<P> +"And you didn't write me! You didn't even tell me, last night!" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't want to distress you. I knew you were having a hard-enough +pull down there without additional worries. It happened very suddenly +while I was out on the road. I got the wire in Peoria. She died very +suddenly and quite painlessly. Her companion, Miss Tate, was with her. +She had never been herself since Dad's death." +</P> + +<P> +"And you——" +</P> + +<P> +"I could only do what was to be done. Then I went back on the road. I +closed up the house, and now I've leased it. Of course it's big enough +for a regiment. But we stayed on because mother was used to it. I +sold some of the furniture, but stored the things she had loved. She +left some to you." +</P> + +<P> +"To me!" +</P> + +<P> +"You know she used to enjoy your visits so much, partly because of the +way in which you always talked of Dad. She left you some jewelry that +she was fond of, and that colossal old mahogany buffet that you used to +rave over whenever you came up. Heaven knows what you'll do with it! +It's a white elephant. If you add another story to it, you could rent +it out as an apartment." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed I shall take it, and cherish it, and polish it up myself every +week—the beauty!" +</P> + +<P> +She came back to her chair. They sat a moment in silence. Then Emma +McChesney spoke musingly. +</P> + +<P> +"So that was it." Buck looked up. "I sensed something—different. I +didn't know. I couldn't explain it." +</P> + +<P> +Buck passed a quick hand over his eyes, shook himself, sat up, erect +and brisk again, and plunged, with a directness that was as startling +as it was new in him, into the details of Middle Western business. +</P> + +<P> +"Good!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all very well to know that Featherlooms are safe in South +America. But the important thing is to know how they're going in the +corn country." +</P> + +<P> +Buck stood up. +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose we transfer this talk to my office. All the papers are there, +all the correspondence—all the orders, everything. You can get the +whole situation in half an hour. What's the use of talking when +figures will tell you." +</P> + +<P> +He walked swiftly over to the door and stood there waiting. Emma +McChesney rose. The puzzled look was there again. +</P> + +<P> +"No, that wasn't it, after all," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" said Buck. "Wasn't what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing," replied Emma McChesney. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm wool-gathering this morning. I'm afraid it's going to take me a +day or two to get back into harness again." +</P> + +<P> +"If you'd rather wait, if you think you'll be more fit to-morrow or the +day after, we'll wait. There's no real hurry. I just thought——" +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. McChesney led the way across the hall that separated her +office from her partner's. Halfway across, she stopped and surveyed +the big, bright, busy main office, with its clacking typewriters and +rustle and crackle of papers and its air of concentration. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you've run up a partition there between Miss Casey's desk and the +workroom door, haven't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; it's much better that way." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, of course. And—why, where are the boys' desks? Spalding's and +Hutchinson's, and—they're all gone!" She turned in amazement. +</P> + +<P> +"Break it to me! Aren't we using traveling men any more?" +</P> + +<P> +Buck laughed his low, pleasant laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes; but I thought their desks belonged somewhere else than in the +main office. They're now installed in the little room between the shop +and Healy's office. Close quarters, but better than having them out +here where they were inclined to neglect their reports in order to +shine in the eyes of that pretty new stenographer. There are one or +two other changes. I hope you'll approve of them." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I shall," replied Emma McChesney, a little stiffly. +</P> + +<P> +In Buck's office, she settled back in her chair to watch him as he +arranged neat sheaves of papers for her inspection. Her eyes traveled +from his keen, eager face to the piles of paper and back again. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me, did you hit it off with the Ella Sweeneys and the Sadie +Harrises of the great Middle West? Is business as bad as the howlers +say it is? You said something last night about a novelty bifurcated +skirt. Was that the new designer's idea? How have the early buyers +taken to it?" +</P> + +<P> +Buck crooked an elbow over his head in self-defense. +</P> + +<P> +"Stop it! You make me feel like Rheims cathedral. Don't bombard until +negotiations fail." +</P> + +<P> +He handed her the first sheaf of papers. But, before she began to +read: "I'll say this much. Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha—the +one you warned against as the human cactus—had me up for dinner. +Well, I know you don't, but it's true. Her father and I hit it off +just like that. He's a character, that old boy. Ever meet him? No? +And Miss Sharp told me something about herself that explains her +porcupine pose. That poor child was engaged to a chap who was killed +in the Spanish-American war, and she——" +</P> + +<P> +"Kate Sharp!" interrupted Emma McChesney. "Why, T. A. Buck, in all her +vinegary, narrow life, that girl has never had a beau, much less——" +</P> + +<P> +Buck's eyebrows came up slightly. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma McChesney, you haven't developed—er—claws, have you?" +</P> + +<P> +With a gasp, Emma McChesney plunged into the papers before her. For ten +minutes, the silence of the room was unbroken except for the crackling +of papers. Then Emma McChesney put down the first sheaf and looked up +at her business partner. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that a fair sample?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Very," answered T. A. Buck, and handed her another set. +</P> + +<P> +Another ten minutes of silence. Emma McChesney reached out a hand for +still another set of papers. The pink of repressed excitement was +tinting her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"They're—they're all like this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Practically, yes." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. McChesney faced him, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A. Buck," she slapped the papers before her smartly with the back +of her hand, "this means you've broken our record for Middle Western +sales!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said T. A., quietly. "Dad would have enjoyed a morning like +this, wouldn't he?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney stood up. +</P> + +<P> +"Enjoyed it! He is enjoying it. Don't tell me that T. A., Senior, +just because he is no longer on earth, has failed to get the joy of +knowing that his son has realized his fondest dreams. Why, I can feel +him here in this room, I can see those bright brown eyes of his +twinkling behind his glasses. Not know it! Of course he knows it." +</P> + +<P> +Buck looked down at the desk, smiling curiously. +</P> + +<P> +"D'you know, I felt that way, too." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. It was not all mirth—that +laugh. Buck waited. +</P> + +<P> +"And to think that I—I kindly and patronizingly handed you a little +book full of tips on how to handle Western buyers, 'The Salesman's +Who's Who'—I, who used to think I was the witch of the West when it +came to selling! You, on your first selling-trip, have made me look +like—like a shoe-string peddler." +</P> + +<P> +Buck put out a hand suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't say that, Emma. I—somehow it takes away all the pleasure." +</P> + +<P> +"It's true. And now that I know, it explains a lot of things that I've +been puzzling about in the last twenty-four hours." +</P> + +<P> +"What kind of things?" +</P> + +<P> +"The way you look and act and think. The way you carry your head. The +way you sit in a chair. The very words you use, your gestures, your +intonations. They're different." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck, busy with his cigar, laughed a little self-consciously. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nonsense!" he said. "You're imagining things." +</P> + +<P> +Which remark, while not a particularly happy one, certainly was not in +itself so unfortunate as to explain why Mrs. McChesney should have +turned rather suddenly and bolted into her own office across the hall +and closed the door behind her. +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck, quite cool and unruffled, viewed her sudden departure +quizzically. Then he took his cigar from his mouth and stood eying it +a moment with more attention, perhaps, than it deserved, in spite of +its fine aroma. When he put it back between his lips and sat down at +his desk once more he was smiling ever so slightly. +</P> + +<P> +Then began a new order of things in the offices of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company. Feet that once had turned quite as a +matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," now took the +direction of the door opposite—and that door bore the name of Buck. +Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence had put her partner to +the test. That acid test had washed away the accumulated dross of +years and revealed the precious metal beneath. T. A. Buck had proved +to be his father's son. +</P> + +<P> +If Mrs. McChesney noticed that the head office had miraculously moved +across the hall, if her sharp ears marked that the many feet that once +had paused at her door now stopped at the door opposite, if she +realized that instead of, "I'd like your opinion on this, Mrs. +McChesney," she often heard the new, "I'll ask Mr. Buck," she did not +show it by word or sign. +</P> + +<P> +The first of October found buyers still flocking into New York from +every State in the country. Shrewd men and women, these—bargain +hunters on a grand scale. Armed with the long spoon of business +knowledge, they came to skim the cream from factory and workroom +products set forth for their inspection. +</P> + +<P> +For years, it had been Emma McChesney's quiet boast that of those whose +business brought them to the offices and showrooms of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, the foremost insisted on dealing only +with her. She was proud of her following. She liked their loyalty. +Their preference for her was the subtlest compliment that was in their +power to pay. Ethel Morrissey, whose friendship dated back to the days +when Emma McChesney had sold Featherlooms through the Middle West, used +to say laughingly, her plump, comfortable shoulders shaking, "Emma, if +you ever give me away by telling how many years I've been buying +Featherlooms of you, I'll—I'll call down upon you the spinster's +curse." +</P> + +<P> +Early Monday morning, Mrs. McChesney, coming down the hall from the +workroom, encountered Miss Ella Sweeney, of Klein & Company, Des +Moines, Iowa, stepping out of the elevator. A very skittish Miss +Sweeney, rustling, preening, conscious of her dangling black earrings +and her Robespierre collar and her beauty-patch. Emma McChesney met +this apparition with outstretched, welcoming hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Ella Sweeney! Well, I'd almost given you up. You're late this fall. +Come into my office." +</P> + +<P> +She led the way, not noticing that Miss Sweeney came reluctantly, her +eyes on the closed door across the way. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down," said Emma McChesney, and pulled a chair nearer her desk. +"No; wait a minute! Let me look at you. Now, Ella, don't try to tell +me that THAT dress came from Des Moines, Iowa! Do I! Why, child, it's +distinctive!" +</P> + +<P> +Miss Sweeney, still standing, smiled a pleased but rather preoccupied +smile. Her eyes roved toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney, radiating good will and energy, went on: +</P> + +<P> +"Wait till you see our new samples! You'll buy a million dollars' +worth. Just let me lead you to our new Walk-Easy bifurcated skirt. We +call it the 'one-stepper's delight.'" She put a hand on Ella Sweeney's +arm, preparatory to guiding her to the showrooms in the rear. But Miss +Sweeney's strange reluctance grew into resolve. A blush, as real as it +was unaccustomed, arose to her bepowdered cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Is—I—that is—Mr. Buck is in, I suppose?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Buck? Oh, yes, he's in." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Sweeney's eyes sought the closed door across the hall. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that—his office?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney stiffened a little. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. +"You have guessed it," she said crisply. "Mr. Buck's name is on the +door, and you are looking at it." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Sweeney looked down, looked up, twiddled the chain about her neck. +</P> + +<P> +"You want to see Mr. Buck?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Sweeney simpered down at her glove-tips, fluttered her eyelids. +</P> + +<P> +"Well—yes—I—I—you see, I bought of him this year, and when you buy +of a person, why, naturally, you——" +</P> + +<P> +"Naturally; I understand." +</P> + +<P> +She walked across the hall, threw open the door, and met T. A. Buck's +glance coolly. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Buck, Miss Sweeney, of Des Moines, is here, and I'm sure you want +to see her. This way, Miss Sweeney." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Sweeney, sidling, blushing, fluttering, teetered in. Emma +McChesney, just before she closed the door, saw a little spasm cross +Buck's face. It was gone so quickly, and a radiant smile sat there so +reassuringly, that she wondered if she had not been mistaken, after +all. He had advanced, hand outstretched, with: +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Sweeney! It—it's wonderful to see you again! You're +looking——" +</P> + +<P> +The closed door stifled the rest. Emma McChesney, in her office across +the way, stood a moment in the center of the room, her hand covering +her eyes. The hardy chrysanthemums still glowed sunnily from their +vase. The little room was very quiet except for the ticking of the +smart, leather-encased clock on the desk. +</P> + +<P> +The closed door shut out factory and office sounds. And Emma McChesney +stood with one hand over her eyes. So Napoleon might have stood after +Waterloo. +</P> + +<P> +After this first lesson, Mrs. McChesney did not err again. When, two +days later, Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha, breezed in, looking +strangely juvenile and distinctly anticipatory, Emma greeted her +smilingly and waved her toward the door opposite. Miss Sharp, the +erstwhile bristling, was strangely smooth and sleek. She glanced ever +so softly, sighed ever so flutteringly. +</P> + +<P> +"Working side by side with him, seeing him day after day, how have you +been able to resist him?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney was only human, after all. +</P> + +<P> +"By remembering that this is a business house, not a matrimonial +parlor." +</P> + +<P> +The dart found no lodging place in Miss Sharp's sleek armor. She +seemed scarcely to have heard. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," she whispered, "his eyes! And his manner! You must +be—whatchamaycallit—adamant. Is that the way you pronounce it? You +know what I mean." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," replied Emma McChesney evenly, "I—know what you mean." +</P> + +<P> +She told herself that she was justified in the righteous contempt which +she felt for this sort of thing. A heart-breaker! A cheap +lady-killer! Whereupon in walked Sam Bloom, of the Paris Emporium, +Duluth, one of Mrs. McChesney's stanchest admirers and a long-tried +business friend. +</P> + +<P> +The usual thing: "Younger than ever, Mrs. McChesney! You're a +wonder—yes, you are! How's business? Same here. Going to have lunch +with me to-day?" Then: "I'll just run in and see Buck. Say, where's +he been keeping himself all these years? Chip off the old block, that +boy." +</P> + +<P> +So he had the men, too! +</P> + +<P> +It was in this frame of mind that Miss Ethel Morrissey found her on the +morning that she came into New York on her semi-annual buying-trip. +Ethel Morrissey, plump, matronly-looking, quiet, with her hair fast +graying at the sides, had nothing of the skittish Middle Western buyer +about her. She might have passed for the mother of a brood of six if +it were not for her eyes—the shrewd, twinkling, far-sighted, reckoning +eyes of the business woman. She and Emma McChesney had been friends +from the day that Ethel Morrissey had bought her first cautious bill of +Featherlooms. Her love for Emma McChesney had much of the maternal in +it. She felt a personal pride in Emma McChesney's work, her success, +her clean reputation, her life of self-denial for her son Jock. When +Ethel Morrissey was planned by her Maker, she had not been meant to be +wasted on the skirt-and-suit department of a small-town store. That +broad, gracious breast had been planned as a resting-place for heads in +need of comfort. Those plump, firm arms were meant to enfold the weak +and distressed. Those capable hands should have smoothed troubled +heads and patted plump cheeks, instead of wasting their gifts in +folding piles of petticoats and deftly twitching a plait or a tuck into +place. She was playing Rosalind in buskins when she should have been +cast for the Nurse. +</P> + +<P> +She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit and +her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and rosy-cheeked +and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney thought, as she kissed +her, while the plump arms held her close. +</P> + +<P> +Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and eyed +her. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me. I want to +buy and get it over, so we can talk." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sure that you want to buy of me?" asked Emma McChesney, a +little wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the joke?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not joking. I thought that perhaps you might prefer to see Mr. +Buck this trip." +</P> + +<P> +Ethel Morrissey placed one forefinger under Emma McChesney's chin and +turned that lady's face toward her and gazed at her long and +thoughtfully—the most trying test of courage in the world, that, to +one whose eyes fear meeting yours. Emma McChesney, bravest of women, +tried to withstand it, and failed. The next instant her head lay on +Ethel Morrissey's broad breast, her hands were clutching the plump +shoulders, her cheek was being patted soothingly by the kind hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, now—what is it, dear? Tell Ethel. Yes; I do know, but tell me, +anyway. It'll do you good." +</P> + +<P> +And Emma McChesney told her. When she had finished: +</P> + +<P> +"You bathe your eyes, Emma, and put on your hat and we'll eat. Oh, yes, +you will. A cup of tea, anyway. Isn't there some little cool fool +place where I can be comfortable on a hot day like this—where we can +talk comfortably? I've got at least an hour's conversation in me." +</P> + +<P> +With the first sip of her first cup of tea, Ethel Morrissey began to +unload that burden of conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. Oh, yes, +it is. The queer thing about it is that it didn't happen sooner. It +was bound to come. You know, Emma, the Lord lets a woman climb just so +high up the mountain of success. And then, when she gets too cocky, +when she begins to measure her wits and brain and strength against that +of men, and finds herself superior, he just taps her smartly on the +head and shins, so that she stumbles, falls, and rolls down a few miles +on the road she has traveled so painfully. He does it just as a gentle +reminder to her that she's only a woman, after all. Oh, I know all +about this feminist talk. But this thing's been proven. Look at what +happened to—to Joan of Arc, and Becky Sharp, and Mary Queen of Scots, +and—yes, I have been spending my evenings reading. Now, stop laughing +at your old Ethel, Emma McChesney!" +</P> + +<P> +"You meant me to laugh, dear old thing. I don't feel much like it, +though. I don't see why I should be reminded of my lowly state. +Heaven knows I haven't been so terrifically pleased with myself! Of +course, that South American trip was—well, gratifying. But I earned +it. For ten years I lived with head in a sample-trunk, didn't I? I +worked hard enough to win the love of all these Westerners. It wasn't +all walking dreamily down Main Street, strewing Featherlooms along my +path." +</P> + +<P> +Ethel Morrissey stirred her second cup of tea, sipped, stirred, smiled, +then reached over and patted Emma McChesney's hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, I'm a wise old party, and I can see that it isn't all pique with +you. It's something else—something deeper. Oh, yes, it is! Now let +me tell you what happened when T. A. Buck invaded your old-time +territory. I was busy up in my department the morning he came in. I +had my head in a rack of coats, and a henny customer waiting. But I +sensed something stirring, and I stuck my head out of the coat-rack in +which I was fumbling. The department was aflutter like a poultry-yard. +Every woman in it, from the little new Swede stock-girl to Gladys +Hemingway, who is only working to wear out her old clothes, was +standing with her face toward the elevator, and on her face a look that +would make the ordinary door-mat marked 'Welcome' seem like an insult. +I kind of smoothed my back hair, because I knew that only one thing +could bring that look into a woman's face. And down the aisle came a +tall, slim, distinguished-looking, wonderfully tailored, +chamois-gloved, walking-sticked Fifth Avenue person with EYES! Of +course, I knew. But the other girls didn't. They just sort of fell +back at his approach, smitten. He didn't even raise an eyebrow to do +it. Now, Emma, I'm not exaggerating. I know what effect he had on me +and my girls, and, for that matter, every other man or woman in the +store. Why, he was a dream realized to most of 'em. These shrewd, +clever buyer-girls know plenty of men—business men of the slap-bang, +horn-blowing, bluff, good-natured, hello-kid kind—the kind that takes +you out to dinner and blows cigar smoke in your face. Along comes this +chap, elegant, well dressed and not even conscious of it, polished, +suave, smooth, low-voiced, well bred. Why, when he spoke to a girl, it +was the subtlest kind of flattery. Can you see little Sadie Harris, of +Duluth, drawing a mental comparison between Sam Bloom, the +store-manager, and this fascinating devil—Sam, red-faced, loud voiced, +shirt-sleeving it around the sample room, his hat pushed 'way back on +his head, chewing his cigar like mad, and wild-eyed for fear he's +buying wrong? Why, child, in our town, nobody carries a cane except +the Elks when they have their annual parade, and old man Schwenkel, +who's lame. And yet we all accepted that yellow walking-stick of +Buck's. It belonged to him. There isn't a skirt-buyer in the Middle +West that doesn't dream of him all night and push Featherlooms in the +store all day. Emma, I'm old and fat and fifty, but when I had dinner +with him at the Manitoba House that evening, I caught myself making +eyes at him, knowing that every woman in the dining-room would have +given her front teeth to be where I was." +</P> + +<P> +After which extensive period, Ethel Morrissey helped herself to her +third cup of tea. Emma McChesney relaxed a little and laughed a +tremulous little laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, I suppose I must not hope to combat such formidable rivals +as walking-sticks, chamois gloves, and EYES. My business arguments are +futile compared to those." +</P> + +<P> +Ethel Morrissey delivered herself of a last shot. +</P> + +<P> +"You're wrong, Emma. Those things helped him, but they didn't sell his +line. He sold Featherlooms out of salesmanship, and because he sounded +convincing and sincere and businesslike—and he had the samples. It +wasn't all bunk. It was three-quarters business. Those two make an +invincible combination." +</P> + +<P> +An hour later, Ethel Morrissey was shrewdly selecting her winter line +of Featherlooms from the stock in the showrooms of the T. A. Buck +Company. They went about their business transaction, these two, with +the cool abruptness of men, speaking little, and then only of prices, +discounts, dating, shipping. Their luncheon conversation of an hour +before seemed an impossibility. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll have dinner with me to-night?" Emma asked. "Up at my +apartment, all cozy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not to-night, dearie. I'll be in bed by eight. I'm not the girl I +used to be. Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now +it's a chore." +</P> + +<P> +She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. +</P> + +<P> +"If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like +company, why don't you ask—somebody else that's lonesome." +</P> + +<P> +After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden +good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney, her color high, entered her office. It was five +o'clock. She cleared her desk in half an hour, breathed a sigh of +weariness, reached for hat and jacket, donned them, and, turning out +her lights, closed her door behind her for the day. At that same +instant, T. A. Buck slammed his own door and walked briskly down the +hall. They met at the elevator. +</P> + +<P> +They descended in silence. The street gained, they paused uncertainly. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you stay down and have dinner with me to-night, Emma?" +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks so much, T. A. Not to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm—sorry." +</P> + +<P> +"Good night." +</P> + +<P> +"Good night." +</P> + +<P> +She turned away. He stood there, in the busy street, looking +irresolutely and not at all eagerly in the direction of his club, +perhaps, or his hotel, or whatever shelter he sought after business +hours. Something in his attitude—the loneliness of it, the +uncertainty, the indecision—smote Emma McChesney with a great pang. +She came swiftly back. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you'd come home to dinner with me. I don't know what Annie'll +give us. Probably bread pudding. She does, when she's left to her own +devices. But I—I wish you would." She looked up at him almost shyly. +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck took Emma McChesney's arm in a rather unnecessarily firm +grip and propelled her, surprised and protesting, in the direction of +the nearest vacant taxi. +</P> + +<P> +"But, T. A.! This is idiotic! Why take a cab to go home from the +office on a—a week day?" +</P> + +<P> +"In with you! Besides, I never have a chance to take one from the +office on Sunday, do I? Does Annie always cook enough for two?" +</P> + +<P> +Apparently Annie did. Annie was something of a witch, in her way. She +whisked about, wrought certain changes, did things with asparagus and +mayonnaise, lighted the rose-shaded table-candles. No one noticed that +dinner was twenty minutes late. +</P> + +<P> +Together they admired the great mahogany buffet that Emma had +miraculously found space for in the little dining-room. +</P> + +<P> +"It glows like a great, deep ruby, doesn't it?" she said proudly. "You +should see Annie circle around it with the carpet-sweeper. She knows +one bump would be followed by instant death." +</P> + +<P> +Looking back on it, afterward, they remembered that the dinner was a +very silent one. They did not notice their wordlessness at the time. +Once, when the chops came on, Buck said absently, +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I had those for l——" Then he stopped abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Your mother trained you well," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The October night had grown cool. Annie had lighted a wood fire in the +living-room. +</P> + +<P> +"That was what attracted me to this apartment in the first place," Mrs. +McChesney said, as they left the dining-room. "A fireplace—a +practical, real, wood-burning fireplace in a New York apartment! I'd +have signed the lease if the plaster had been falling in chunks and the +bathtub had been zinc." +</P> + +<P> +"That's because fireplaces mean home—in our minds," said Buck. +</P> + +<P> +He sat looking into the heart of the glow. There fell another of those +comfortable silences. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., I—I want to tell you that I know I've been acting the cat ever +since I got home from South America and found that you had taken +charge. You see, you had spoiled me. The thing that has happened to +me is the thing that always happens to those who assume to be +dictators. I just want you to know, now, that I'm glad and proud and +happy because you have come into your own. It hurt me just at first. +That was the pride of me. I'm quite over that now. You're not only +president of the T. A. Buck Company in name. You're its actual head. +And that's as it should be. Long live the King!" +</P> + +<P> +Buck sat silent a moment. Then, +</P> + +<P> +"I had to do it, Emma." She looked up. "You have a wonderful brain," +said Buck then, and the two utterances seemed connected in his mind. +</P> + +<P> +They seemed to bring no great satisfaction to the woman to whom he +addressed them, however. She thanked him dryly, as women do when their +brain is dragged into an intimate conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"But," said Buck, and suddenly stood up, looking at her very intently, +"it isn't for your mind that I love you this minute. I love you for +your eyes, Emma, and for your mouth—you have the tenderest, most +womanly-sweet mouth in the world—and for your hair, and the way your +chin curves. I love you for your throat-line, and for the way you walk +and talk and sit, for the way you look at me, and for the way you don't +look at me." +</P> + +<P> +He reached down and gathered Emma McChesney, the alert, the aggressive, +the capable, into his arms, quite as men gather the clingingest kind of +woman. "And now suppose you tell me just why and how you love me." +</P> + +<P> +And Emma McChesney told him. +</P> + +<P> +When, at last, he was leaving, +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think," asked Emma McChesney, her hands on his shoulders, +"that you overdid the fascination thing just the least leetle bit there +on the road?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, but you told me to entertain them, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," reluctantly; "but I didn't tell you to consecrate your life to +'em. The ordinary fat, middle-aged, every-day traveling man will never +be able to sell Featherlooms in the Middle West again. They won't have +'em. They'll never be satisfied with anything less than John Drew +after this." +</P> + +<P> +"Emma McChesney, you're not marrying me because a lot of overdressed, +giggling, skittish old girls have taken a fancy to make eyes at me, are +you!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney stood up very straight and tall. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm marrying you, T. A., because you are a great, big, fine, +upstanding, tender, wonderful——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, then that's all right," broke in Buck, a little tremulously. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney's face grew serious. +</P> + +<P> +"But promise me one thing, T. A. Promise me that when you come home +for dinner at night, you'll never say, 'Good heavens, I had that for +lunch!'" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CLOSER CORPORATION +</H3> + +<P> +Front offices resemble back kitchens in this: they have always an ear +at the keyhole, an eye at the crack, a nose in the air. But +</P> + +<P> +between the ordinary front office and the front office of the T. A. +Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company there was a difference. The +employees at Buck's—from Emil, the errand boy, to old Pop Henderson, +who had started as errand boy himself twenty-five years +before—possessed the quality of loyalty. They were loyal to the +memory of old man Buck, because they had loved and respected him. They +were loyal to Mrs. Emma McChesney, because she was Mrs. Emma McChesney +(which amounts to the same reason). They were loyal to T. A. Buck, +because he was his father's son. +</P> + +<P> +For three weeks the front office had been bewildered. From +bewilderment it passed to worry. A worried, bewildered front office is +not an efficient front office. Ever since Mrs. McChesney had come off +the road, at the death of old T. A. Buck, to assume the secretaryship +of the company which she had served faithfully for ten years, she had +set an example for the entire establishment. She was the pacemaker. +Every day of her life she figuratively pressed the electric button that +set the wheels to whirring. At nine A.M., sharp, she appeared, erect, +brisk, alert, vibrating energy. Usually, the office staff had not yet +swung into its gait. In a desultory way, it had been getting into its +sateen sleevelets, adjusting its eye-shades, uncovering its typewriter, +opening its ledgers, bringing out its files. Then, down the hall, would +come the sound of a firm, light, buoyant step. An electric thrill +would pass through the front office. Then the sunny, sincere, "Good +morning!" +</P> + +<P> +"'Morning, Mrs. McChesney!" the front office would chorus back. +</P> + +<P> +The day had begun for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. +</P> + +<P> +Hortense, the blond stenographer (engaged to the shipping-clerk), +noticed it first. The psychology of that is interesting. Hortense knew +that by nine-thirty Mrs. McChesney's desk would be clear and that the +buzzer would summon her. Hortense didn't mind taking dictation from T. +A. Buck, though his method was hesitating and jerky, and he was likely +to employ quite casually a baffling and unaccustomed word, over which +Hortense's scampering pencil would pause, struggle desperately, then +race on. Hortense often was in for a quick, furtive session with her +pocket-dictionary after one of T. A.'s periods. But with Mrs. +McChesney, dictation was a joy. She knew what she wanted to say and +she always said it. The words she used were short, clean-cut, +meaningful Anglo-Saxon words. She never used received when she could +use got. Hers was the rapid-fire-gun method, each word sharp, well +timed, efficient. +</P> + +<P> +Imagine, then, Hortense staring wide-eyed and puzzled at a floundering, +hesitating, absent-minded Mrs. McChesney—a Mrs. McChesney strangely +starry as to eyes, strangely dreamy as to mood, decidedly deficient as +to dictation. Imagine a Hortense with pencil poised in air a full five +minutes, waiting until Mrs. McChesney should come to herself with a +start, frown, smile vaguely, pass a hand over her eyes, and say, "Let +me see—where was I?" +</P> + +<P> +"'And we find, on referring to your order, that the goods you +mention——'" Hortense would prompt patiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, of course," with an effort. Hortense was beginning to grow +alarmed. +</P> + +<P> +In T. A. Buck's office, just across the hall, the change was quite as +noticeable, but in another way. His leisurely drawl was gone. His +deliberate manner was replaced by a brisk, quick-thinking, +quick-speaking one. His words were brief and to the point. He seemed +to be riding on the crest of an excitement-wave. And, as he dictated, +he smiled. +</P> + +<P> +Hortense stood it for a week. Then she unburdened herself to Miss +Kelly, the assistant bookkeeper. Miss Kelly evinced no surprise at her +disclosures. +</P> + +<P> +"I was just talking about it to Pop yesterday. She acts worried, +doesn't she? And yet, not exactly worried, either. Do you suppose it +can be that son of hers—what's his name? Jock." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"No; he's all right. She had a letter from him yesterday. He's got a +grand position in Chicago, and he's going to marry that girl he was so +stuck on here. And it isn't that, either, because Mrs. McChesney likes +her. I can tell by the way she talks about her. I ought to know. +Look how Henry's ma acted toward me when we were first engaged!" +</P> + +<P> +The front office buzzed with it. It crept into the workroom—into the +shipping-room. It penetrated the frowsy head of Jake, the +elevator-man. As the days went on and the tempo of the front office +slackened with that of the two bright little inner offices, only one +member of the whole staff remained unmoved, incurious, taciturn. Pop +Henderson listened, one scant old eyebrow raised knowingly, a whimsical +half-smile screwing up his wrinkled face. +</P> + +<P> +At the end of three weeks, Hortense, with that display of temperament +so often encountered in young ladies of her profession, announced in +desperation that, if this thing kept on, she was going to forget +herself and jeopardize her position by demanding to know outright what +the trouble was. +</P> + +<P> +From the direction of Pop Henderson's inky retreat, there came the +sound of a dry chuckle. Pop Henderson had been chuckling in just that +way for three weeks, now. It was getting on the nerves of his +colleagues. +</P> + +<P> +"If you ever spring the joke that's kept you giggling for a month," +snapped Hortense, "it'll break up the office." +</P> + +<P> +Pop Henderson removed his eye-shade very deliberately, passed his thin, +cramped old hand over his scant gray locks to his bald spot, climbed +down stiffly from his stool, ambled to the center of the room, and, +head cocked like a knowing old brown sparrow, regarded the pert +Hortense over his spectacles and under his spectacles and, finally, +through his spectacles. +</P> + +<P> +"Young folks now 'days," began Pop Henderson dryly, "are so darned cute +and knowin' that when an old fellow cuts in ahead of 'em for once, he +likes to hug the joke to himself a while before he springs it." There +was no acid in his tone. He was beaming very benignantly down upon the +little blond stenographer. "You say that Mrs. Mack is +absent-minded-like and dreamy, and that young T. A. acts like he'd +swallowed an electric battery. Well, when it comes to that, I've seen +you many a time, when you didn't know any one was lookin', just sitting +there at your typewriter, with your hands kind of poised halfway, and +your lips sort of parted, and your eyes just gazing away somewhere off +in the distance for fifteen minutes at a stretch. And out there in the +shipping-room Henry's singing like a whole minstrel troupe all day +long, when he isn't whistlin' so loud you can hear him over 's far as +Eighth Avenue." Then, as the red surged up through the girl's fair +skin, "Well?" drawled old Pop Henderson, and the dry chuckle threatened +again. "We-e-ell?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Pop Henderson!" exploded Miss Kelly from her cage. +"Why—Pop—Henderson!" +</P> + +<P> +In those six words the brisk and agile-minded Miss Kelly expressed the +surprise and the awed conviction of the office staff. +</P> + +<P> +Pop Henderson trotted over to the water-cooler, drew a brimming glass, +drank it off, and gave vent to a great exhaust of breath. He tried not +to strut as he crossed back to his desk, climbed his stool, adjusted +his eye-shade, and, with a last throaty chuckle, plunged into his books +again. +</P> + +<P> +But his words already were working their wonders. The office, after +the first shock, was flooded with a new atmosphere—a subtle, pervasive +air of hushed happiness, of tender solicitude. It went about like a +mother who has found her child asleep at play, and who steals away +atiptoe, finger on lip, lips smiling tenderly. +</P> + +<P> +The delicate antennae of Emma McChesney's mind sensed the change. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps she read something in the glowing eyes of her sister-in-love, +Hortense. Perhaps she caught a new tone in Miss Kelly's voice or the +forewoman's. Perhaps a whisper from the outer office reached her desk. +The very afternoon of Pop Henderson's electrifying speech, Mrs. +McChesney crossed to T. A. Buck's office, shut the door after her, +lowered her voice discreetly, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., they're on." +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing. That is, nothing definite. No man-reason. Just a +woman-reason." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck strolled over to her, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't known you all this time without having learned that that's +reason enough. And if they really do know, I'm glad." +</P> + +<P> +"But we didn't want them to know. Not yet—until—until just before +the——" +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck laid his hands lightly on Emma McChesney's shoulders. Emma +McChesney promptly reached up and removed them. +</P> + +<P> +"There you are!" exclaimed Buck, and rammed the offending hands into +his pockets. +</P> + +<P> +"That's why I'm glad they know—if they really do know. I'm no actor. +I'm a skirt-and-lingerie manufacturer. For the last six weeks, instead +of being allowed to look at you with the expression that a man +naturally wears when he's looking at the woman he's going to marry, +what have I had to do? Glare, that's what! Scowl! Act like a captain +of finance when I've felt like a Romeo! I've had to be dry, terse, +businesslike, when I was bursting with adjectives that had nothing to +do with business. You've avoided my office as you would a small-pox +camp. You've greeted me with a what-can-I-do-for-you air when I've +dared to invade yours. You couldn't have been less cordial to a book +agent. If it weren't for those two hours you grant me in the evening, +I'd—I'd blow up with a loud report, that's what. I'd——" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, now, T. A.!" interrupted Emma McChesney soothingly, and patted +one gesticulating arm. "It has been a bit of a strain—for both of us. +But, you know, we agreed it would be best this way. We've ten days +more to go. Let's stick it out as we've begun. It has been best for +us, for the office, for the business. The next time you find yourself +choked up with a stock of fancy adjectives, write a sonnet to me. Work +'em off that way." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck stood silent a moment, regarding her with a concentration +that would have unnerved a woman less poised. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma McChesney, when you talk like that, so coolly, so evenly, so—so +darned mentally, I sometimes wonder if you really——" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't say it, T. A. Because you don't mean it. I've had to fight for +most of my happiness. I've never before found it ready at hand. I've +always had to dig for it with a shovel and a spade and a pickax, and +then blast. I had almost twenty years of that—from the time I was +eighteen until I was thirty-eight. It taught me to take my happiness +seriously and my troubles lightly." She shut her eyes for a moment, +and her voice was very low and very deep and very vibrant. "So, when +I'm coolest and evenest and most mental, T. A., you may know that I've +struck gold." +</P> + +<P> +A great glow illumined Buck's fine eyes. He took two quick steps in +her direction. But Emma McChesney, one hand on the door-knob, warned +him off with the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Hey—wait a minute!" pleaded Buck. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't. I've a fitting at the tailor's at three-thirty—my new suit. +Wait till you see it!" +</P> + +<P> +"The dickens you have! But so have I"—he jerked out his watch—"at +three-thirty! It's the suit I'm going to wear when I travel as a +blushing bridegroom." +</P> + +<P> +"So's mine. And look here, T. A.! We can't both leave this place for +a fitting. It's absurd. If this keeps on, it will break up the +business. We'll have to get married one at a time—or, at least, get +our trousseaux one at a time. What's your suit?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sort of brown." +</P> + +<P> +"Brown? So's mine! Good heavens, T. A., we'll look like a minstrel +troupe!" +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +Buck sighed resignedly. +</P> + +<P> +"If I telephone my tailor that I can't make it until four-thirty, will +you promise to be back by that time?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; but remember, if your bride appears in a skirt that sags in the +back or a coat that bunches across the shoulders, the crime will lie at +your door." +</P> + +<P> +So it was that the lynx-eyed office staff began to wonder if, after +all, Pop Henderson was the wizard that he had claimed to be. +</P> + +<P> +During working hours, Mrs. McChesney held rigidly to business. Her +handsome partner tried bravely to follow her example. If he failed +occasionally, perhaps Emma McChesney was not so displeased as she +pretended to be. A business discussion, deeply interesting to both, +was likely to run thus: +</P> + +<P> +Buck, entering her office briskly, papers in hand: "Mrs. +McChesney—ahem!—I have here a letter from Singer & French, Columbus, +Ohio. They ask for an extension. They've had ninety days." +</P> + +<P> +"That's enough. That firm's slow pay, and always will be until old +Singer has the good taste and common sense to retire. It isn't because +the stock doesn't move. Singer simply believes in not paying for +anything until he has to. If I were you, I'd write him that this is a +business house, not a charitable institution—— No, don't do that. It +isn't politic. But you know what I mean." +</P> + +<P> +"H'm; yes." A silence. "Emma, that's a fiendishly becoming gown." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, T. A.!" +</P> + +<P> +"But it is! It—it's so kind of loose, and yet clinging, and those +white collar-and-cuff things——" +</P> + +<P> +"T. A. Buck, I've worn this thing down to the office every day for a +month. It shines in the back. Besides, you promised not to——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, darn it all, Emma, I'm human, you know! How do you suppose I can +stand here and look at you and not——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney (pressing the buzzer that summons Hortense): "You know, +Tim, I don't exactly hate you this morning, either. But business is +business. Stop looking at me like that!" Then, to Hortense, in the +doorway: "Just take this letter, Miss Stotz-Singer & French, Columbus, +Ohio. Dear Sirs: Yours of the tenth at hand. Period. Regarding your +request for further extension we wish to say that, in view of the +fact——" +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck, half resentful, half amused, wholly admiring, would +disappear. But Hortense, eyes demurely cast down at her notebook, was +not deceived. +</P> + +<P> +"Say," she confided to Miss Kelly, "they think they've got me fooled. +But I'm wise. Don't I know? When Henry passes through the office +here, from the shipping-room, he looks at me just as cool and +indifferent. Before we announced it, we had you all guessing, didn't +we? But I can see something back of that look that the rest of you +can't get. Well, when Mr. Buck looks at her, I can see the same thing +in his eyes. Say, when it comes to seeing the love-light through the +fog, I'm there with the spy-glass." +</P> + +<P> +If Emma McChesney held herself well in leash during the busy day, she +relished her happiness none the less when she could allow herself the +full savor of it. When a girl of eighteen she had married a man of the +sort that must put whisky into his stomach before the machinery of his +day would take up its creaking round. +</P> + +<P> +Out of the degradation of that marriage she had emerged triumphantly, +sweet and unsullied, and she had succeeded in bringing her son, Jock +McChesney, out into the clear sunlight with her. +</P> + +<P> +The evenings spent with T. A. Buck, the man of fine instincts, of +breeding, of proven worth, of rare tenderness, filled her with a great +peace and happiness. When doubts assailed her, it was not for herself +but for him. Sometimes the fear would clutch her as they sat before +the fire in the sitting-room of her comfortable little apartment. She +would voice those fears for the very joy of having them stilled. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., this is too much happiness. I'm—I'm afraid. After all, +you're a young man, though you are a bit older than I in actual years. +But men of your age marry girls of eighteen. You're handsome. And +you've brains, family, breeding, money. Any girl in New York would be +glad to marry you—those tall, slim, exquisite young girls. Young! +And well bred, and poised and fresh and sweet and lovable. You see +them every day on Fifth Avenue, exquisitely dressed, entirely +desirable. They make me feel—old—old and battered. I've sold goods +on the road. I've fought and worked and struggled. And it has left +its mark. I did it for the boy, God bless him! And I'm glad I did it. +But it put me out of the class of that girl you see on——" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Emma; you're not at all in the class with that girl you see every +day on Fifth Avenue. Fifth Avenue's full of her—hundreds of her, +thousands of her. Perhaps, five years ago, before I had worked side by +side with you, I might have been attracted by that girl you see every +day on Fifth Avenue. You don't see a procession of Emma McChesneys +every day on Fifth Avenue—not by a long shot! Why? Because there's +only one of her. She doesn't come in dozen lots. I know that that +girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue is all that I deserve. But, by +some heaven-sent miracle, I'm to have this Emma McChesney woman! I +don't know how it came to be true. I don't deserve it. But it is +true, and that's enough for me." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney would look up at him, eyes wet, mouth smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., you're balm and myrrh and incense and meat and drink to me. I +wish I had words to tell you what I'm thinking now. But I haven't. So +I'll just cover it up. We both know it's there. And I'll tell you that +you make love like a 'movie' hero. Yes, you do! Better than a 'movie' +hero, because, in the films, the heroine always has to turn to face the +camera, which makes it necessary for him to make love down the back of +her neck." +</P> + +<P> +But T. A. Buck was unsmiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't trifle, Emma. And don't think you can fool me that way. I +haven't finished. I want to settle this Fifth Avenue creature for all +time. What I have to say is this: I think you are more +attractive—finer, bigger, more rounded in character and manner, +mellower, sweeter, sounder, with all your angles and corners rubbed +smooth, saner, better poised than any woman I have ever known. And +what I am to-day you have made me, directly and indirectly, by +association and by actual orders, by suggestion, and by direct contact. +What you did for Jock, purposefully and by force, you did for me, too. +Not so directly, perhaps, but with the same result. Emma McChesney, +you've made—actually made, molded, shaped, and turned out two men. +You're the greatest sculptor that ever lived. You could make a +scarecrow in a field get up and achieve. Everywhere one sees women +over-wrought, over-stimulated, eager, tense. When there appears one +who has herself in leash, balanced, tolerant, poised, sane, composed, +she restores your faith in things. You lean on her, spiritually. I +know I need you more than you need me, Emma. And I know you won't love +me the less for that. There—that's about all for this evening." +</P> + +<P> +"I think," breathed Emma McChesney in a choked little voice, "that +that's about—enough." +</P> + +<P> +Two days before the date set for their very quiet wedding, they told +the heads of office and workroom. Office and workroom, somewhat moist +as to eye and flushed as to cheek and highly congratulatory, proved +their knowingness by promptly presenting to their employers a very +costly and unbelievably hideous set of mantel ornaments and clock, +calculated to strike horror to the heart of any woman who has lovingly +planned the furnishing of her drawing-room. Pop Henderson, after some +preliminary wrestling with collar, necktie, spectacles, and voice, +launched forth on a presentation speech that threatened to close down +the works for the day. Emma McChesney heard it, tears in her eyes. T. +A. Buck gnawed his mustache. And when Pop Henderson's cracked old +voice broke altogether in the passage that touched on his departed +employer, old T. A. Buck, and the great happiness that this occasion +would have brought him, Emma's hand met young T. A.'s and rested there. +Hortense and Henry, standing very close together all through the +speech, had, in this respect, anticipated their employers by several +minutes. +</P> + +<P> +They were to be away two weeks only. No one knew just where, except +that some small part of the trip was to be spent on a flying visit to +young Jock McChesney out in Chicago. He himself was to be married very +soon. Emma McChesney had rather startled her very good-looking +husband-to-be by whirling about at him with, +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., do you realize that you're very likely to be a step-grandfather +some fine day not so far away!" +</P> + +<P> +T. A. had gazed at her for a rather shocked moment, swallowed hard, +smiled, and said, +</P> + +<P> +"Even that doesn't scare me, Emma." +</P> + +<P> +Everything had been planned down to the last detail. Mrs. McChesney's +little apartment had been subleased, and a very smart one taken and +furnished almost complete, with Annie installed in the kitchen and a +demure parlor-maid engaged. +</P> + +<P> +"When we come back, we'll come home," T. A. Buck had said. "Home!" +</P> + +<P> +There had been much to do, but it had all been done smoothly and +expertly, under the direction of these two who had learned how to plan, +direct, and carry out. +</P> + +<P> +Then, on the last day, Emma McChesney, visibly perturbed, entered her +partner's office, a letter in her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"This is ghastly!" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +Buck pulled out a chair for her. +</P> + +<P> +"Klein cancel his order again?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. And don't ask me to sit down. Be thankful that I don't blow up." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it as bad as that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bad! Here—read that! No, don't read it; I'll tell you. It'll +relieve my feelings. You know how I've been angling and scheming and +contriving and plotting for years to get an exclusive order from Gage & +Fosdick. Of course we've had a nice little order every few months, but +what's that from the biggest mail-order house in the world? And now, +out of a blue sky, comes this bolt from O'Malley, who buys our stuff, +saying that he's coming on the tenth—that's next week—that he's +planned to establish our line with their trade, and that he wants us to +be prepared for a record-breaking order. I've fairly prayed for this. +And now—what shall we do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do?"—smoothly—"just write the gentleman and tell him you're busy +getting married this week and next, and that, by a singular +coincidence, your partner is similarly engaged; that our manager will +attend to him with all care and courtesy, unless he can postpone his +trip until our return. Suggest that he call around a week or two +later." +</P> + +<P> +"T. A. Buck, I know it isn't considered good form to rage and glare at +one's fiance on the eve of one's wedding-day. If this were a week +earlier or a week later, I'd be tempted to—shake you!" +</P> + +<P> +Buck stood up, came over to her, and laid a hand very gently on her +arm. With the other hand he took the letter from her fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, you're tired, and a little excited. You've been under an +unusual physical and mental strain for the last few weeks. Give me +that letter. I'll answer it. This kind of thing"—he held up the +letter—"has meant everything to you. If it had not, where would I be +to-day? But to-night, Emma, it doesn't mean a thing. Not—one thing." +</P> + +<P> +Slowly Emma McChesney's tense body relaxed. A great sigh that had in +it weariness and relief and acquiescence came from her. She smiled ever +so faintly. +</P> + +<P> +"I've been a ramrod so long it's going to be hard to learn to be a +clinging vine. I've been my own support for so many years, I don't use +a trellis very gracefully—yet. But I think I'll get the hang of it +very soon." +</P> + +<P> +She turned toward the door, crossed to her own office, looked all about +at the orderly, ship-shape room that reflected her personality—as did +any room she occupied. +</P> + +<P> +"Just the same," she called out, over her shoulder, to Buck in the +doorway, "I hate like fury to see that order slide." +</P> + +<P> +In hat and coat and furs she stood a moment, her fingers on the +electric switch, her eyes very bright and wide. The memories of ten +years, fifteen years, twenty years crowded up around her and filled the +little room. Some of them were golden and some of them were black; a +few had power to frighten her, even now. So she turned out the light, +stood for just another moment there in the darkness, then stepped out +into the hall, closed the door softly behind her, and stood face to +face with the lettering on the glass panel of the door—the lettering +that spelled the name, "MRS. MCCHESNEY." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck watched her in silence. She reached up with one wavering +forefinger and touched each of the twelve letters, one after the other. +Then she spread her hand wide, blotting out the second word. And when +she turned away, one saw—she being Emma McChesney, and a woman, and +very tired and rather sentimental, and a bit hysterical and altogether +happy—that, though she was smiling, her eyes were wet. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In her ten years on the road, visiting town after town, catching +trains, jolting about in rumbling hotel 'buses or musty-smelling +small-town hacks, living in hotels, good, bad, and indifferent, Emma +McChesney had come upon hundreds of rice-strewn, ribbon-bedecked bridal +couples. She had leaned from her window at many a railway station to +see the barbaric and cruel old custom of bride-and-bridegroom baiting. +She had smiled very tenderly—and rather sadly, and hopefully, +too—upon the boy and girl who rushed breathless into the car in a +flurry of white streamers, flowers, old shoes, laughter, cheers, last +messages. Now, as in a dream, she found herself actually of these. Of +rice, old shoes, and badinage there had been none, it is true. She +stood quietly by while Buck attended to their trunks, just as she had +seen it done by hundreds of helpless little cotton-wool women who had +never checked a trunk in their lives—she, who had spent ten years of +her life wrestling with trunks and baggagemen and porters. Once there +was some trifling mistake—Buck's fault. Emma, with her experience of +the road, saw his error. She could have set him right with a word. It +was on the tip of her tongue. By sheer force of will she withheld that +word, fought back the almost overwhelming inclination to take things in +hand, set them right. It was just an incident, almost trifling in +itself. But its import was tremendous, for her conduct, that moment, +shaped the happiness of their future life together. +</P> + +<P> +Emma had said that there would be no rude awakenings for them, no +startling shocks. +</P> + +<P> +"There isn't a thing we don't know about each other," she had said. +"We each know the other's weaknesses and strength. I hate the way you +gnaw your mustache when you're troubled, and I think the fuss you make +when the waiter pours your coffee without first having given you sugar +and cream is the most absurd thing I've ever seen. But, then, I know +how it annoys you to see me sitting with one slipper dangling from my +toe, when I'm particularly comfortable and snug. You know how I like +my eggs, and you think it's immoral. I suppose we're really set in our +ways. It's going to be interesting to watch each other shift." +</P> + +<P> +"Just the same," Buck said, "I didn't dream there was any woman living +who could actually make a Pullman drawing-room look homelike." +</P> + +<P> +"Any woman who has spent a fourth of her life in hotels and trains +learns that trick. She has to. If she happens to be the sort that +likes books and flowers and sewing, she carries some of each with her. +And one book, one rose, and one piece of unfinished embroidery would +make an oasis in the Sahara Desert look homelike." +</P> + +<P> +It was on the westbound train that they encountered Sam—Sam of the +rolling eye, the genial grin, the deft hand. Sam was known to every +hardened traveler as the porter de luxe of the road. Sam was a +diplomat, a financier, and a rascal. He never forgot a face. He never +forgave a meager tip. The passengers who traveled with him were at +once his guests and his victims. +</P> + +<P> +Therefore his, "Good evenin', Mis' McChesney, ma'am. Good even'! +Well, it suh't'nly has been a long time sense Ah had the pleasuh of yoh +presence as passengah, ma'am. Ah sure am——" +</P> + +<P> +The slim, elegant figure of T. A. Buck appeared in the doorway. Sam's +rolling eye became a thing on ball bearings. His teeth flashed +startlingly white in the broadest of grins. He took Buck's hat, ran a +finger under its inner band, and shook it very gently. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the idea?" inquired Buck genially. "Are you a combination +porter and prestidigitator?" +</P> + +<P> +Sam chuckled his infectious negro chuckle. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, no, sah! Ah wouldn' go's fah as t' say that, sah. But Ah hab +been known to shake rice out of a gen'lman's ordinary, ever'-day, black +derby hat." +</P> + +<P> +"Get out!" laughed T. A. Buck, as Sam ducked. +</P> + +<P> +"You may as well get used to it," smiled Emma, "because I'm known to +every train-conductor, porter, hotel-clerk, chamber-maid, and bell-boy +between here and the Great Lakes." +</P> + +<P> +It was Sam who proved himself hero of the honeymoon, for he saved T. A. +Buck from continuing his journey to Chicago brideless. Fifteen minutes +earlier, Buck had gone to the buffet-car for a smoke. At Cleveland, +Emma, looking out of the car window, saw a familiar figure pacing up +and down the station platform. It was that dapper and important little +Irishman, O'Malley, buyer for Gage & Fosdick, the greatest mail-order +house in the world—O'Malley, whose letter T. A. Buck had answered; +O'Malley, whose order meant thousands. He was on his way to New York, +of course. +</P> + +<P> +In that moment Mrs. T. A. Buck faded into the background and Emma +McChesney rose up in her place. She snatched hat and coat and furs, +put them on as she went down the long aisle, swung down the car steps, +and flew down the platform to the unconscious O'Malley. He was +smoking, all unconscious. The Fates had delivered him into her expert +hands. She knew those kindly sisters of old, and she was the last to +refuse their largesse. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. O'Malley!" +</P> + +<P> +He wheeled. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. McChesney!" He had just a charming trace of a brogue. His +enemies said he assumed it. "Well, who was I thinkin' of but you a +minute ago. What——" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm on my way to Chicago. Saw you from the car window. You're on the +New York train? I thought so. Tell me, you're surely seeing our man, +aren't you?" +</P> + +<P> +O'Malley's smiling face clouded. He was a temperamental Irishman—Ted +O'Malley—with ideas on the deference due him and his great house. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. McChesney. I had a letter from your Mr. +Buck. It wasn't much of a letter to a man like me, representing a +house like Gage & Fosdick. It said both heads of the firm would be out +of town, and would I see the manager. Me—see the manager! Well, +thinks I, if that's how important they think my order, then they'll not +get it—that's all. I've never yet——" +</P> + +<P> +"Dear Mr. O'Malley, please don't be offended. As a McChesney to an +O'Malley, I want to tell you that I've just been married." +</P> + +<P> +"Married! God bless me—to——" +</P> + +<P> +"To T. A. Buck, of course. He's on that train. He——" +</P> + +<P> +She turned toward the train. And as she turned it began to move, ever +so gently. At the same moment there sped toward her, with unbelievable +swiftness, the figure of Sam the porter, his eyes all whites. By one +arm he grasped her, and half carried, half jerked her to the steps of +the moving train, swung her up to the steps like a bundle of rags, +caught the rail by a miracle, and stood, grinning and triumphant, +gazing down at the panting O'Malley, who was running alongside the +train. +</P> + +<P> +"Back in a week. Will you wait for us in New York?" called Emma, her +breath coming fast. She was trembling, too, and laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"Will I wait!" called back the puffing O'Malley, every bit of the Irish +in him beaming from his eyes. "I'll be there when you get back as sure +as your name's McBuck." +</P> + +<P> +From his pocket he took a round, silver Western dollar and, still +running, tossed it to the toothy Sam. That peerless porter caught it, +twirled it, kissed it, bowed, and grinned afresh as the train glided +out of the shed. +</P> + +<P> +Emma, flushed, smiling, flew up the aisle. +</P> + +<P> +Buck, listening to her laughing, triumphant account of her hairbreadth, +harum-scarum adventure, frowned before he smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, how could you do it! At least, why didn't you send back for me +first?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma smiled a little tremulously. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be angry. You see, dear boy, I've only been your wife for a +week. But I've been Featherloom petticoats for over fifteen years. +It's a habit." +</P> + +<P> +Just how strong and fixed a habit, she proved to herself a little more +than a week later. It was the morning of their first breakfast in the +new apartment. You would have thought, to see them over their coffee +and eggs and rolls, that they had been breakfasting together thus for +years—Annie was so at home in her new kitchen; the deft little maid, +in her crisp white, fitted so perfectly into the picture. Perhaps the +thing that T. A. Buck said, once the maid left them alone, might have +given an outsider the cue. +</P> + +<P> +"You remind me of a sweetpea, Emma. One of those crisp, erect, +golden-white, fresh, fragrant sweetpeas. I think it is the slenderest, +sweetest, neatest, trimmest flower in the world, so delicately set on +its stem, and yet so straight, so independent." +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., you say such dear things to me!" +</P> + +<P> +No; they had not been breakfasting together for years. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad you're not one of those women that wears a frowsy, lacy, +ribbony, what-do-you-call-'em-boudoir-cap—down to breakfast. They +always make me think of uncombed hair. That's just one reason why I'm +glad." +</P> + +<P> +"And I'm glad," said Emma, looking at his clear eyes and steady hand +and firm skin, "for a number of reasons. One of them is that you're +not the sort of man who's a grouch at breakfast." +</P> + +<P> +When he had hat and coat and stick in hand, and had kissed her good-by +and reached the door and opened it, he came back again, as is the way +of bridegrooms. But at last the door closed behind him. +</P> + +<P> +Emma sat there a moment, listening to his quick, light step down the +corridor, to the opening of the lift door, to its metallic closing. +She sat there, in the sunshiny dining-room, in her fresh, white morning +gown. She picked up her newspaper, opened it; scanned it, put it down. +For years, now, she had read her newspaper in little gulps on the way +downtown in crowded subway or street-car. She could not accustom +herself to this leisurely scanning of the pages. She rose, went to the +window, came back to the table, stood there a moment, her eyes fixed on +something far away. +</P> + +<P> +The swinging door between dining-room and butler's pantry opened. +Annie, in her neat blue-and-white stripes, stood before her. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall it be steak or chops to-night, Mrs. Mc—Buck?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma turned her head in Annie's direction—then her eyes. The two +actions were distinct and separate. +</P> + +<P> +"Steak or——" There was a little bewildered look in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Her mind had not yet focused on the question. "Steak—oh! Oh, yes, of +course! Why—why, Annie"—and the splendid thousand-h.-p. mind brought +itself down to the settling of this butter-churning, two-h.-p. +question—"why, Annie, considering all things, I think we'll make it +filet with mushrooms." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BLUE SERGE +</H3> + +<P> +For ten years, Mrs. Emma McChesney's home had been a wardrobe-trunk. +She had taken her family life at second hand. Four nights out of the +seven, her bed was "Lower Eight," and her breakfast, as many mornings, +a cinder-strewn, lukewarm horror, taken tete-a-tete with a sleepy-eyed +stranger and presided over by a white-coated, black-faced bandit, to +whom a coffee-slopped saucer was a matter of course. +</P> + +<P> +It had been her habit during those ten years on the road as traveling +saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, to avoid +the discomfort of the rapidly chilling car by slipping early into her +berth. There, in kimono, if not in comfort, she would shut down the +electric light with a snap, raise the shade, and, propped up on one +elbow, watch the little towns go by. They had a wonderful fascination +for her, those Middle Western towns, whose very names had a +comfortable, home-like sound—Sandusky, Galesburg, Crawfordsville, +Appleton—very real towns, with very real people in them. Peering +wistfully out through the dusk, she could get little intimate glimpses +of the home life of these people as the night came on. In those modest +frame houses near the station they need not trouble to pull down the +shades as must their cautious city cousins. As the train slowed down, +there could be had a glimpse of a matronly housewife moving deftly +about in the kitchen's warm-yellow glow, a man reading a paper in +slippered, shirt-sleeved comfort, a pig-tailed girl at the piano, a +woman with a baby in her arms, or a family group, perhaps, seated about +the table, deep in an after-supper conclave. It had made her homeless +as she was homesick. +</P> + +<P> +Emma always liked that picture best. Her keen, imaginative mind could +sense the scene, could actually follow the trend of the talk during +this, the most genial, homely, soul-cheering hour of the day. The +trifling events of the last twelve hours in schoolroom, in store, in +office, in street, in kitchen loom up large as they are rehearsed in +that magic, animated, cozy moment just before ma says, with a sigh: +</P> + +<P> +"Well, folks, go on into the sitting-room. Me and Nellie've got to +clear away." +</P> + +<P> +Just silhouettes as the train flashed by—these small-town people—but +very human, very enviable to Emma McChesney. +</P> + +<P> +"They're real," she would say. "They're regular, three-meals-a-day +people. I've been peeking in at their windows for ten years, and I've +learned that it is in these towns that folks really live. The +difference between life here and life in New York is the difference +between area and depth. D'you see what I mean? In New York, they live +by the mile, and here they live by the cubic foot. Well, I'd rather +have one juicy, thick club-steak than a whole platterful of +quarter-inch. It's the same idea." +</P> + +<P> +To those of her business colleagues whose habit it was to lounge in the +hotel window with sneering comment upon the small-town procession as it +went by, Emma McChesney had been wont to say: +</P> + +<P> +"Don't sneer at Main Street. When you come to think of it, isn't it +true that Fifth Avenue, any bright winter afternoon between four and +six, is only Main Street on a busy day multiplied by one thousand?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney was not the sort of woman to rail at a fate that had +placed her in the harness instead of in the carriage. But during all +the long years of up-hill pull, from the time she started with a humble +salary in the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, +through the years spent on the road, up to the very time when the crown +of success came to her in the form of the secretaryship of the +prosperous firm of T. A. Buck, there was a minor but fixed ambition in +her heart. That same ambition is to be found deep down in the heart of +every woman whose morning costume is a tailor suit, whose newspaper +must be read in hurried snatches on the way downtown in crowded train +or car, and to whom nine A.M. spells "Business." +</P> + +<P> +"In fifteen years," Emma McChesney used to say, "I've never known what +it is to loll in leisure. I've never had a chance to luxuriate. +Sunday? To a working woman, Sunday is for the purpose of repairing the +ravages of the other six days. By the time you've washed your brushes, +mended your skirt-braid, darned your stockings and gloves, looked for +gray hairs and crows'-feet, and skimmed the magazine section, it's +Monday." +</P> + +<P> +It was small wonder that Emma McChesney's leisure had been limited. In +those busy years she had not only earned the living for herself and her +boy; she had trained that boy into manhood and placed his foot on the +first rung of business success. She had transformed the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company from a placidly mediocre concern to a +thriving, flourishing, nationally known institution. All this might +have turned another woman's head. It only served to set Emma +McChesney's more splendidly on her shoulders. Not too splendidly, +however; for, with her marriage to her handsome business partner, T. A. +Buck, that well-set, independent head was found to fit very cozily into +the comfortable hollow formed by T. A. Buck's right arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma," Buck had said, just before their marriage, "what is the +arrangement to be after—after——" +</P> + +<P> +"Just what it is now, I suppose," Emma had replied, "except that we'll +come down to the office together." +</P> + +<P> +He had regarded her thoughtfully for a long minute. Then, "Emma, for +three months after our marriage will you try being just Mrs. T. A. +Buck?" +</P> + +<P> +"You mean no factory, no Featherlooms, no dictation, no business +bothers!" Her voice was a rising scale of surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Just try it for three months, with the privilege of a lifetime, if you +like it. But try it. I—I'd like to see you there when I leave, Emma. +I'd like to have you there when I come home. I suppose I sound like a +selfish Turk, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"You sound like a regular husband," Emma McChesney had interrupted, +"and I love you for it. Now listen, T. A. For three whole months I'm +going to be what the yellow novels used to call a doll-wife. I'm going +to meet you at the door every night with a rose in my hair. I shall +wear pink things with lace ruffles on 'em. Don't you know that I've +been longing to do just those things for years and years? I'm going to +blossom out into a beauty. Watch me! I've never had time to study +myself. I'll hold shades of yellow and green and flesh-color up to my +face to see which brings out the right tints. I'm going to gaze at +myself through half-closed eyes to see which shade produces tawny +lights in my hair. Ever since I can remember, I've been so busy that +it has been a question of getting the best possible garments in the +least possible time for the smallest possible sum. In that case, one +gets blue serge. I've worn blue serge until it feels like a convict's +uniform. I'm going to blossom out into fawn and green and mauve. I +shall get evening dresses with only bead shoulder-straps. I'm going to +shop. I've never really seen Fifth Avenue between eleven and one, when +the real people come out. My views of it have been at nine A.M. when +the office-workers are going to work, and at five-thirty when they are +going home. I will now cease to observe the proletariat and mingle +with the predatory. I'll probably go in for those tiffin things at the +Plaza. If I do, I'll never be the same woman again." +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon she paused with dramatic effect. +</P> + +<P> +To all of which T. A. Buck had replied: +</P> + +<P> +"Go as far as you like. Take fencing lessons, if you want to, or +Sanskrit. You've been a queen bee for so many years that I think the +role of drone will be a pleasant change. Let me shoulder the business +worries for a while. You've borne them long enough." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a bargain. For three months I shall do nothing more militant +than to pick imaginary threads off your coat lapel and pout when you +mention business. At the end of those three months we'll go into +private session, compare notes, and determine whether the plan shall +cease or become permanent. Shake hands on it." +</P> + +<P> +They shook hands solemnly. As they did so, a faint shadow of doubt +hovered far, far back in the depths of T. A. Buck's fine eyes. And a +faint, inscrutable smile lurked in the corners of Emma's lips. +</P> + +<P> +So it was that Emma McChesney, the alert, the capable, the brisk, the +business-like, assumed the role of Mrs. T. A. Buck, the leisurely, the +languid, the elegant. She, who formerly, at eleven in the morning, +might have been seen bent on selling the best possible bill of spring +Featherlooms to Joe Greenbaum, of Keokuk, Iowa, could now be found in a +modiste's gray-and-raspberry salon, being draped and pinned and fitted. +She, whose dynamic force once charged the entire office and factory +with energy and efficiency, now distributed a tithe of that priceless +vigor here, a tithe there, a tithe everywhere, and thus broke the very +backbone of its power. +</P> + +<P> +She had never been a woman to do things by halves. What she undertook +to do she did thoroughly and whole-heartedly. This principle she +applied to her new mode of life as rigidly as she had to the old. +</P> + +<P> +That first month slipped magically by. Emma was too much a woman not +to feel a certain exquisite pleasure in the selecting of delicate and +becoming fabrics. There was a thrill of novelty in being able to spend +an hour curled up with a book after lunch, to listen to music one +afternoon a week, to drive through the mistily gray park; to walk up +the thronged, sparkling Avenue, pausing before its Aladdin's Cave +windows. Simple enough pleasures, and taken quite as a matter of +course by thousands of other women who had no work-filled life behind +them to use as contrast. +</P> + +<P> +She plunged into her new life whole-heartedly. The first new gown was +exciting. It was a velvet affair with furs, and gratifyingly becoming. +Her shining blond head rose above the soft background of velvet and fur +with an effect to distract the least observing. +</P> + +<P> +"Like it?" she had asked Buck, turning slowly, frankly sure of herself. +</P> + +<P> +"You're wonderful in it," said T. A. Buck. "Say, Emma, where's that +blue thing you used to wear—the one with the white cuffs and collar, +and the little blue hat with the what-cha-ma-call-ems on it?" +</P> + +<P> +"T. A. Buck, you're—you're—well, you're a man, that's what you are! +That blue thing was worn threadbare in the office, and I gave it to the +laundress's niece weeks ago." Small wonder her cheeks took on a deeper +pink. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said Buck, unruffled, "too bad! There was something about that +dress—I don't know——" +</P> + +<P> +At the first sitting of the second gown, Emma revolted openly. +</P> + +<P> +On the floor at Emma's feet there was knotted into a contortionistic +attitude a small, wiry, impolite person named Smalley. Miss Smalley +was an artist in draping and knew it. She was the least fashionable +person in all that smart dressmaking establishment. She refused to +notice the corset-coiffure-and-charmeuse edict that governed all other +employees in the shop. In her shabby little dress, her steel-rimmed +spectacles, her black-sateen apron, Smalley might have passed for a +Bird Center home dressmaker. Yet, given a yard or two or three of +satin and a saucer of pins, Smalley could make the dumpiest of +debutantes look like a fragile flower. +</P> + +<P> +At a critical moment Emma stirred. Handicapped as she was by a +mouthful of nineteen pins and her bow-knot attitude, Smalley still +could voice a protest. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't move!" she commanded, thickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait a minute," Emma said, and moved again, more disastrously than +before. "Don't you think it's too—too young?" +</P> + +<P> +She eyed herself in the mirror anxiously, then looked down at Miss +Smalley's nut-cracker face that was peering up at her, its lips pursed +grotesquely over the pins. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it is," mumbled Miss Smalley. "Everybody's clothes are too +young for 'em nowadays. The only difference between the dresses we +make for girls of sixteen and the dresses we make for their +grandmothers of sixty is that the sixty-year-old ones want 'em shorter +and lower, and they run more to rose-bud trimming." +</P> + +<P> +Emma surveyed the acid Miss Smalley with a look that was half amused, +half vexed, wholly determined. +</P> + +<P> +"I shan't wear it. Heaven knows I'm not sixty, but I'm not sixteen +either! I don't want to be." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Smalley, doubling again to her task, flung upward a grudging +compliment. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, anyway, you've got the hair and the coloring and the figure for +it. Goodness knows you look young enough!" +</P> + +<P> +"That's because I've worked hard all my life," retorted Emma, almost +viciously. "Another month of this leisure and I'll be as wrinkled as +the rest of them." +</P> + +<P> +Smalley's magic fingers paused in their manipulation of a soft fold of +satin. +</P> + +<P> +"Worked? Earned a living? Used your wits and brains every day against +the wits and brains of other folks?" +</P> + +<P> +"Every day." +</P> + +<P> +Into the eyes of Miss Smalley, the artist in draping, there crept the +shrewd twinkle of Miss Smalley, the successful woman in business. She +had been sitting back on her knees, surveying her handiwork through +narrowed lids. Now she turned her gaze on Emma, who was smiling down +at her. +</P> + +<P> +"Then for goodness' sake don't stop! I've found out that work is a +kind of self-oiler. If you're used to it, the minute you stop you +begin to get rusty, and your hinges creak and you clog up. And the +next thing you know, you break down. Work that you like to do is a +blessing. It keeps you young. When my mother was my age, she was +crippled with rheumatism, and all gnarled up, and quavery, and all she +had to look forward to was death. Now me—every time the styles in +skirts change I get a new hold on life. And on a day when I can make a +short, fat woman look like a tall, thin woman, just by sitting here on +my knees with a handful of pins, and giving her the line she needs, I +go home feeling like I'd just been born." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that feeling," said Emma, in her eyes a sparkle that had long +been absent. "I've had it when I've landed a thousand-dollar +Featherloom order from a man who has assured me that he isn't +interested in our line." +</P> + +<P> +At dinner that evening, Emma's gown was so obviously not of the new +crop that even her husband's inexpert eye noted it. +</P> + +<P> +"That's not one of the new ones, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"This! And you a manufacturer of skirts!" +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter with the supply of new dresses? Isn't there enough +to go round?" +</P> + +<P> +"Enough! I've never had so many new gowns in my life. The trouble is +that I shan't feel at home in them until I've had 'em all dry-cleaned +at least once." +</P> + +<P> +During the second month, there came a sudden, sharp change in skirt +modes. For four years women had been mincing along in garments so +absurdly narrow that each step was a thing to be considered, each +curbing or car-step demanding careful negotiation. Now, Fashion, in +her freakiest mood, commanded a bewildering width of skirt that was +just one remove from the flaring hoops of Civil War days. Emma knew +what that meant for the Featherloom workrooms and selling staff. New +designs, new models, a shift in prices, a boom for petticoats, for four +years a garment despised. +</P> + +<P> +A hundred questions were on the tip of Emma's tongue; a hundred +suggestions flashed into her keen mind; there occurred to her a +wonderful design for a new model which should be full and flaring +without being bulky and uncomfortable as were the wide petticoats of +the old days. +</P> + +<P> +But a bargain was a bargain. Still, Emma Buck was as human as Emma +McChesney had been. She could not resist a timid, +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., are you—that is—I was just wondering—you're making 'em wide, +I suppose, for the spring trade." +</P> + +<P> +A queer look flashed into T. A. Buck's eyes—a relieved look that was +as quickly replaced by an expression both baffled and anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"Why—a—mmmm—yes—oh, yes, we're making 'em up wide, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"But what?" Emma leaned forward, tense. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nothing—nothing." +</P> + +<P> +During the second month there came calling on Emma, those solid and +heavy New Yorkers, with whom the Buck family had been on friendly terms +for many years. They came at the correct hour, in their correct motor +or conservative broughams, wearing their quietly correct clothes, and +Emma gave them tea, and they talked on every subject from suffrage to +salad dressings, and from war to weather, but never once was mention +made of business. And Emma McChesney's life had been interwoven with +business for more than fifteen years. +</P> + +<P> +There were dinners—long, heavy, correct dinners. Emma, very well +dressed, bright-eyed, alert, intelligent, vital, became very popular at +these affairs, and her husband very proud of her popularity. And if +any one as thoroughly alive as Mrs. T. A. Buck could have been bored to +extinction by anything, then those dinners would have accomplished the +deadly work. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A.," she said one evening, after a particularly large affair of +this sort, "T. A., have you ever noticed anything about me that is +different from other women?" +</P> + +<P> +"Have I? Well, I should say I——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't mean what you mean, dear—thanks just the same. I mean +those women tonight. They all seem to 'go in' for something—votes or +charity or dancing or social service, or something—even the girls. +And they all sounded so amateurish, so untrained, so unprepared, yet +they seemed to be dreadfully in earnest." +</P> + +<P> +"This is the difference," said T. A. Buck. "You've rubbed up against +life, and you know. They've always been sheltered, but now they want +to know. Well, naturally they're going to bungle and bump their heads +a good many times before they really find out." +</P> + +<P> +"Anyway," retorted Emma, "they want to know. That's something. It's +better to have bumped your head, even though you never see what's on +the other side of the wall, than never to have tried to climb it." +</P> + +<P> +It was in the third week of the third month that Emma encountered +Hortense. Hortense, before her marriage to Henry, the shipping-clerk, +had been a very pretty, very pert, very devoted little stenographer in +the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She had +married just a month after her employers, and Emma, from the fulness of +her own brimming cup of happiness, had made Hortense happy with a gift +of linens and lingerie and lace of a fineness that Hortense's +beauty-loving, feminine heart could never have hoped for. +</P> + +<P> +They met in the busy aisle of a downtown department store and shook +hands as do those who have a common bond. +</P> + +<P> +Hortense, as pretty as ever and as pert, spoke first. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't have known you, Mrs. Mc— Buck!" +</P> + +<P> +"No? Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"You look—no one would think you'd ever worked in your life. I was +down at the office the other day for a minute—the first time since I +was married. They told me you weren't there any more." +</P> + +<P> +"No; I haven't been down since my marriage either. I'm like you—an +elegant lady of leisure." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense's bright-blue eyes dwelt searchingly on the face of her former +employer. +</P> + +<P> +"The bunch in the office said they missed you something awful." Then, +in haste: "Oh, I don't mean that Mr. Buck don't make things go all +right. They're awful fond of him. But—I don't know—Miss Kelly said +she never has got over waiting for the sound of your step down the hall +at nine—sort of light and quick and sharp and busy, as if you couldn't +wait till you waded into the day's work. Do you know what I mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know what you mean," said Emma. +</P> + +<P> +There was a little pause. The two women so far apart, yet so near; so +different, yet so like, gazed far down into each other's soul. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss it, don't you?" said Hortense. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do I! Say——" She turned and indicated the women surging up and +down the store aisles, and her glance and gesture were replete with +contempt. "Say; look at 'em! Wandering around here, aimless as a lot +of chickens in a barnyard. Half of 'em are here because they haven't +got anything else to do. Think of it! I've watched 'em lots of times. +They go pawing over silks and laces and trimmings just for the pleasure +of feeling 'em. They stand in front of a glass case with a figure in it +all dressed up in satin and furs and jewels, and you'd think they were +worshiping an idol like they used to in the olden days. They don't seem +to have anything to do. Nothing to occupy their—their heads. Say, if +I thought I was going to be like them in time, I——" +</P> + +<P> +"Hortense, my dear child, you're—you're happy, aren't you? Henry——" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I should say we are! I'm crazy about Henry, and he thinks I'm +perfect. Honestly, ain't they a scream! They think they're so big and +manly and all, and they're just like kids; ain't it so? We're living +in a four-room apartment in Harlem. We've got it fixed up too cozy for +anything." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to come and see you," said Emma. Hortense opened her eyes +wide. +</P> + +<P> +"Honestly; if you would——" +</P> + +<P> +"Let's go up now. I've the car outside." +</P> + +<P> +"Now! Why I—I'd love it!" +</P> + +<P> +They chattered like schoolgirls on the way uptown—these two who had +found so much in common. The little apartment reached, Hortense threw +open the door with the confident gesture of the housekeeper who is not +afraid to have her household taken by surprise—whose housekeeping is +an index of character. +</P> + +<P> +Hortense had been a clean-cut little stenographer. Her correspondence +had always been free from erasures, thumb-marks, errors. Her four-room +flat was as spotless as her typewritten letters had been. The kitchen +shone in its blue and white and nickel. A canary chirped in the tiny +dining-room. There were books and magazines on the sitting-room table. +The bedroom was brave in its snowy spread and the toilet silver that +had been Henry's gift to her the Christmas they became engaged. +</P> + +<P> +Emma examined everything, exclaimed over everything, admired +everything. Hortense glowed like a rose. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really like it? I like the green velours in the sitting-room, +don't you? It's always so kind and cheerful. We're not all settled +yet. I don't suppose we ever will be. Sundays, Henry putters around, +putting up shelves, and fooling around with a can of paint. I always +tell him he ought to have lived on a farm, where he'd have elbow-room." +</P> + +<P> +"No wonder you're so happy and busy," Emma exclaimed, and patted the +girl's fresh, young cheek. +</P> + +<P> +Hortense was silent a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm happy," she said, at last, "but I ain't busy. And—well, if +you're not busy, you can't be happy very long, can you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Emma, "idleness, when you're not used to it, is misery." +</P> + +<P> +"There! You've said it! It's like running on half-time when you're +used to a day-and-night shift. Something's lacking. It isn't that +Henry isn't grand to me, because he is. Evenings, we're so happy that +we just sit and grin at each other and half the time we forget to go to +a 'movie.' After Henry leaves in the morning, I get to work. I +suppose, in the old days, when women used to have to chop the kindling, +and catch the water for washing in a rain-barrel, and keep up a fire in +the kitchen stove and do their own bread baking and all, it used to +keep 'em hustling. But, my goodness! A four-room flat for two isn't +any work. By eleven, I'm through. I've straightened everything, from +the bed to the refrigerator; the marketing's done, and the dinner +vegetables are sitting around in cold water. The mending for two is a +joke. Henry says it's a wonder I don't sew double-breasted buttons on +his undershirts." +</P> + +<P> +Emma was not smiling. But, then, neither was Hortense. She was +talking lightly, seemingly, but her pretty face was quite serious. +</P> + +<P> +"The big noise in my day is when Henry comes home at six. That was all +right and natural, I suppose, in those times when a quilting-bee was a +wild afternoon's work, and teaching school was the most advanced job a +woman could hold down." +</P> + +<P> +Emma was gazing fascinated at the girl's sparkling face. Her own eyes +were very bright, and her lips were parted. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me, Hortense," she said now; "what does Henry say to all this? +Have you told him how you feel?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I—I talked to him about it once or twice. I told him that I've +got about twenty-four solid hours a week that I might be getting fifty +cents an hour for. You know, I worked for a manuscript-typewriting +concern before I came over to Buck's—plays and stories and that kind +of thing. They used to like my work because I never queered their +speeches by leaving out punctuation or mixing up the characters. The +manager there said I could have work any time I wanted it. I've got my +own typewriter. I got it second hand when I first started in. Henry +picks around on it sometimes, evenings. I hardly ever touch it. It's +getting rusty—and so am I." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't just the money you want, Hortense? Are you sure?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I'd like the money. That extra coming in would mean +books—I'm crazy about reading, and so is Henry—and theaters and lots +of things we can't afford now. But that isn't all. Henry don't want +to be a shipping-clerk all his life. He's crazy about mechanics and +that kind of stuff. But the books that he needs cost a lot. Don't you +suppose I'd be proud to feel that the extra money I'd earned would lift +him up where he could have a chance to be something! But Henry is dead +set against it. He says he is the one that's going to earn the money +around here. I try to tell him that I'm used to using my mind. He +laughs and pinches my cheek and tells me to use it thinking about him." +She stopped suddenly and regarded Emma with conscience-stricken eyes. +"You don't think I'm running down Henry, do you? My goodness, I don't +want you to think that I'd change back again for a million dollars, +because I wouldn't." She looked up at Emma, conscience-stricken. +</P> + +<P> +Emma came swiftly over and put one hand on the girl's shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think it. Not for a minute. I know that the world is full of +Henrys, and that the number of Hortenses is growing larger and larger. +I don't know if the four-room flats are to blame, or whether it's just +a natural development. But the Henry-Hortense situation seems to be +spreading to the nine-room-and-three-baths apartments, too." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense nodded a knowing head. +</P> + +<P> +"I kind of thought so, from the way you were listening." +</P> + +<P> +The two, standing there gazing at each other almost shyly, suddenly +began to laugh. The laugh was a safety-valve. Then, quite as +suddenly, both became serious. That seriousness had been the +under-current throughout. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder," said Emma very gently, "if a small Henry, some day, won't +provide you with an outlet for all that stored-up energy." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense looked up very bravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe. You—you must have been about my age when your boy was born. +Did he make you feel—different?" +</P> + +<P> +The shade of sadness that always came at the mention of those unhappy +years of her early marriage crept into Emma's face now. +</P> + +<P> +"That was not the same, dear," she explained. "I hadn't your sort of +Henry. You see, my boy was my only excuse for living. You'll never +know what that means. And when things grew altogether impossible, and +I knew that I must earn a living for Jock and myself, I just did +it—that's all. I had to." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense thought that over for one deliberate moment. Her brows were +drawn in a frown. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll tell you what I think," she announced, at last, "though I don't +know that I can just exactly put it into words. I mean this: Some +people are just bound to—to give, to build up things, to—well, to +manufacture, because they just can't help it. It's in 'em, and it's +got to come out. Dynamos—that's what Henry's technical books would +call them. You're one—a great big one. I'm one. Just a little tiny +one. But it's sparking away there all the time, and it might as well +be put to some use, mightn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma bent down and kissed the troubled forehead, and then, very +tenderly, the pretty, puckered lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Little Hortense," she said, "you're asking a great big question. I +can answer it for myself, but I can't answer it for you. It's too +dangerous. I wouldn't if I could." +</P> + +<P> +Emma, waiting in the hall for the lift, looked back at the slim little +figure in the doorway. There was a droop to the shoulders. Emma's +heart smote her. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't bother your head about all this, little girl," she called back +to her. "Just forget to be ambitious and remember to be happy. That's +much the better way." +</P> + +<P> +Hortense, from the doorway, grinned a rather wicked little grin. +</P> + +<P> +"When are you going back to the office, Mrs. Buck?" she asked, quietly +enough. +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you think I'm going back at all?" demanded Emma, stepping +into the shaky little elevator. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think it," retorted Hortense, once more the pert. "I know it." +</P> + +<P> +Emma knew it, too. She had known it from the moment that she shook +hands in her compact. There was still one week remaining of the +stipulated three months. It seemed to Emma that that one week was +longer than the combined eleven. But she went through with colors +flying. Whatever Emma McChesney Buck did, she did well. But, then, T. +A. Buck had done his part well, too—so well that, on the final day, +Emma felt a sinking at her heart. He seemed so satisfied with affairs +as they were. He was, apparently, so content to drop all thought of +business when he left the office for his home. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Emma had planned a very special little dinner that evening. She wore a +very special gown, too—one of the new ones. T. A. noticed it at once, +and the dinner as well, being that kind of husband. Still, Annie, the +cook, complained later, to the parlor-maid, about the thanklessness of +cooking dinners for folks who didn't eat more'n a mouthful, anyway. +</P> + +<P> +Dinner over, +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. Buck. +</P> + +<P> +"Light your cigar, T. A.," said Emma. "You'll need it." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. lighted it with admirable leisureliness, sent out a great puff of +fragrant smoke, and surveyed his wife through half-closed lids. +Beneath his air of ease there was a tension. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Emma?" he said again, gently. +</P> + +<P> +Emma looked at him a moment appreciatively. She had too much poise and +balance and control herself not to recognize and admire those qualities +in others. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., if I had been what they call a homebody, we wouldn't be married +to-day, would we?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"You knew plenty of home-women that you could have married, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't ask them, Emma, but——" +</P> + +<P> +"You know what I mean. Now listen, T. A.: I've loafed for three +months. I've lolled and lazied and languished. And I've never been so +tired in my life—not even when we were taking January inventory. +Another month of this, and I'd be an old, old woman. I understand, +now, what it is that brings that hard, tired, stony look into the faces +of the idle women. They have to work so hard to try to keep happy. I +suppose if I had been a homebody all my life, I might be hardened to +this kind of thing. But it's too late now. And I'm thankful for it. +Those women who want to shop and dress and drive and play are welcome +to my share of it. If I am to be punished in the next world for my +wickedness in this, I know what form my torture will take. I shall +have to go from shop to shop with a piece of lace in my hand, matching +a sample of insertion. Fifteen years of being in the thick of it spoil +one for tatting and tea. The world is full of homebodies, I suppose. +And they're happy. I suppose I might have been one, too, if I hadn't +been obliged to get out and hustle. But it's too late to learn now. +Besides, I don't want to. If I do try, I'll be destroying the very +thing that attracted you to me in the first place. Remember what you +said about the Fifth Avenue girl?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, Emma," interrupted Buck very quietly, "I don't want you to try." +</P> + +<P> +Emma, with a rush of words at her very lips, paused, eyed him for a +doubtful moment, asked a faltering question. +</P> + +<P> +"But it was your plan—you said you wanted me to be here when you came +home and when you left, didn't you? Do you mean you——" +</P> + +<P> +"I mean that I've missed my business partner every minute for three +months. All the time we've been going to those fool dinners and all +that kind of thing, I've been bursting to talk skirts to you. I—say, +Emma, Adler's designed a new model—a full one, of course, but there's +something wrong with it. I can't put my finger on the flaw, but——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma came swiftly over to his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Make a sketch of it, can't you?" she said. From his pocket Buck drew +a pencil, an envelope, and fell to sketching rapidly, squinting down +through his cigar smoke as he worked. +</P> + +<P> +"It's like this," he began, absorbed and happy; "you see, where the +fulness begins at the knee——" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" prompted Emma, breathlessly. +</P> + +<P> +Two hours later they were still bent over the much marked bit of paper. +But their interest in it was not that of those who would solve a +perplexing problem. It was the lingering, satisfied contemplation of a +task accomplished. +</P> + +<P> +Emma straightened, leaned back, sighed—a victorious, happy sigh. +</P> + +<P> +"And to think," she said, marveling, "to think that I once envied the +women who had nothing to do but the things I've done in the last three +months!" +</P> + +<P> +Buck had risen, stretched luxuriously, yawned. Now he came over to his +wife and took her head in his two hands, cozily, and stood a moment +looking into her shining eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, I may have mentioned this once or twice before, but perhaps +you'll still be interested to know that I think you're a wonder. A +wonder! You're the——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, we won't quarrel about that," smiled Emma brazenly. "But I +wonder if Adler will agree with us when he sees what we've done to his +newest skirt design." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her. She was off down the +hall. Buck, following in a leisurely manner, hands in pockets, stood +in the bedroom door and watched her plunge into the innermost depths of +the clothes-closet. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the idea, Emma?" +</P> + +<P> +"Looking for something," came back his wife's muffled tones. +</P> + +<P> +A long wait. +</P> + +<P> +"Can I help?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've got it!" cried Emma, and emerged triumphant, flushed, smiling, +holding a garment at arm's length, aloft. +</P> + +<P> +"What——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma shook it smartly, turned it this way and that, held it up under +her chin by the sleeves. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, girl!" exclaimed Buck, all a-grin, "it's the——" +</P> + +<P> +"The blue serge," Emma finished for him, "with the white collars and +cuffs. And what's more, young man, it's the little blue hat with the +what-cha-ma-call-ems on it. And praise be! I'm wearing 'em both +down-town to-morrow morning." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"HOOPS, MY DEAR!" +</H3> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck always vigorously disclaimed any knowledge of that +dreamy-eyed damsel known as Inspiration. T. A. Buck, her +husband-partner, accused her of being on intimate terms with the lady. +So did the adoring office staff of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. Out in the workshop itself, the designers and cutters, those +jealous artists of the pencil, shears, and yardstick, looked on in awed +admiration on those rare occasions when the feminine member of the +business took the scissors in her firm white hands and slashed boldly +into a shimmering length of petticoat-silk. When she put down the +great shears, there lay on the table the detached parts of that which +the appreciative and experienced eyes of the craftsmen knew to be a new +and original variation of that elastic garment known as the underskirt. +</P> + +<P> +For weeks preceding one of these cutting-exhibitions, Emma was likely +to be not quite her usual brisk self. A mystic glow replaced the alert +brightness of her eye. Her wide-awake manner gave way to one of almost +sluggish inactivity. +</P> + +<P> +The outer office, noting these things, would lift its eyebrows +significantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Another hunch!" it would whisper. "The last time she beat the rest of +the trade by six weeks with that elastic-top gusset." +</P> + +<P> +"Inspiration working, Emma?" T. A. Buck would ask, noting the symptoms. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't inspiration, T. A. Nothing of the kind! It's just an attack +of imagination, complicated by clothes-instinct." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all that ails Poiret," Buck would retort. +</P> + +<P> +Early in the autumn, when women were still walking with an absurd +sidewise gait, like a duck, or a filly that is too tightly hobbled, the +junior partner of the firm began to show unmistakable signs of business +aberration. A blight seemed to have fallen upon her bright little +office, usually humming with activity. The machinery of her day, +ordinarily as noiseless and well ordered as a thing on ball bearings, +now rasped, creaked, jerked, stood still, jolted on again. A bustling +clerk or stenographer, entering with paper or memorandum, would find +her bent over her desk, pencil in hand, absorbed in a rough drawing +that seemed to bear no relation to the skirt of the day. The margin of +her morning paper was filled with queer little scrawls by the time she +reached the office. She drew weird lines with her fork on the +table-cloth at lunch. These hieroglyphics she covered with a quick +hand, like a bashful schoolgirl, when any one peeped. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell a fellow what it's going to be, can't you?" pleaded Buck. +</P> + +<P> +"I got one glimpse yesterday, when you didn't know I was looking over +your shoulder. It seemed a pass between an overgrown Zeppelin and an +apple dumpling. So I know it can't be a skirt. Come on, Emma; tell +your old man!" +</P> + +<P> +"Not yet," Emma would reply dreamily. +</P> + +<P> +Buck would strike an attitude intended to intimidate. +</P> + +<P> +"If you have no sense of what is due me as your husband, then I demand, +as senior partner of this firm, to know what it is that is taking your +time, which rightfully belongs to this business." +</P> + +<P> +"Go away, T. A., and stop pestering me! What do you think I'm +designing—a doily?" +</P> + +<P> +Buck, turning to go to his own office, threw a last retort over his +shoulder—a rather sobering one, this time. +</P> + +<P> +"Whatever it is, it had better be good—with business what it is and +skirts what they are." +</P> + +<P> +Emma lifted her head to reply to that. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't what they are that interests me. It's what they're going to +be." +</P> + +<P> +Buck paused in the doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"Going to be! Anybody can see that. Underneath that full, fool, +flaring over-drape, the real skirt is as tight as ever. I don't think +the spring models will show an inch of real difference. I tell you, +Emma, it's serious." +</P> + +<P> +Emma, apparently absorbed in her work, did not reply to this. But a +vague something about the back of her head told T. A. Buck that she was +laughing at him. The knowledge only gave him new confidence in this +resourceful, many-sided, lovable, level-headed partner-wife of his. +</P> + +<P> +Two weeks went by—four—six—eight. Emma began to look a little thin. +Her bright color was there only when she was overtired or excited. The +workrooms began to talk of new designs for spring, though it was +scarcely mid-winter. The head designer came forward timidly with a +skirt that measured a yard around the bottom. Emma looked at it, tried +to keep her lower lip prisoner between her teeth, failed, and began to +laugh helplessly, almost hysterically. +</P> + +<P> +Amazement in the faces of Buck and Koritz, the designer, became +consternation, then, in the designer, resentment. +</P> + +<P> +Koritz, dark, undersized, with the eyes of an Oriental and the lean, +sensitive fingers of one who creates, shivered a little, like a plant +that is swept by an icy blast. Buck came over and laid one hand on his +wife's shaking shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Emma, you're overtired! This—this thing you've been slaving over has +been too much for you." +</P> + +<P> +With one hand, Emma reached up and patted the fingers that rested +protectingly on her shoulder. With the other, she wiped her eyes, +then, all contrition, grasped the slender brown hand of the offended +Koritz. +</P> + +<P> +"Bennie, please forgive me! I—I didn't mean to laugh. I wasn't +laughing at your new skirt." +</P> + +<P> +"You think it's too wide, maybe, huh?" Bennie Koritz said, and held it +up doubtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Too wide!" For a moment Emma seemed threatened with another attack of +that inexplicable laughter. She choked it back resolutely. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Bennie; not too wide. I'll tell you to-morrow why I laughed. +Then, perhaps, you'll laugh with me." +</P> + +<P> +Bennie, draping his despised skirt-model over one arm, had the courage +to smile even now, though grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"I laugh—sure," he said, showing his white teeth now. "But the laugh +will be, I bet you, on me—like it was when you designed that +knickerbocker before the trade knew such a thing could be." +</P> + +<P> +Impulsively Emma grasped his hand and shook it, as though she found a +certain needed encouragement in the loyalty of this sallow little +Russian. +</P> + +<P> +"Bennie, you're a true artist—because you're big enough to praise the +work of a fellow craftsman when you recognize its value." And Koritz, +the dull red showing under the olive of his cheeks, went back to his +cutting-table happy. +</P> + +<P> +Buck bent forward, eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"You're going to tell me now, Emma? It's finished?" +</P> + +<P> +"To-night—at home. I want to be the first to try it on. I'll play +model. A private exhibition, just for you. It's not only finished; it +is patented." +</P> + +<P> +"Patented! But why? What is it, anyway? A new fastener? I thought +it was a skirt." +</P> + +<P> +"Wait until you see it. You'll think I should have had it copyrighted +as well, not to say passed by the national board of censors." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to say that I'm to be the entire audience at the premiere +of this new model?" +</P> + +<P> +"You are to be audience, critic, orchestra, box-holder, patron, and +'Diamond Jim' Brady. Now run along into your own office—won't you, +dear? I want to get out these letters." And she pressed the button +that summoned a stenographer. +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck, resigned, admiring, and anticipatory, went. +</P> + +<P> +Annie, the cook, was justified that evening in her bitter complaint. +Her excellent dinner received scant enough attention from these two. +They hurried through it like eager, bright-eyed school-children who +have been promised a treat. Two scarlet spots glowed in Emma's cheeks. +Buck's eyes, through the haze of his after-dinner cigar, were luminous. +</P> + +<P> +"Now?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; not yet. I want you to smoke your cigar and digest your dinner +and read your paper. I want you to twiddle your thumbs a little and +look at your watch. First-night curtains are always late in rising, +aren't they? Well!" +</P> + +<P> +She turned on the full glare of the chandelier, turned it off, went +about flicking on the soft-shaded wall lights and the lamps. +</P> + +<P> +"Turn your chair so that your back will be toward the door." +</P> + +<P> +He turned it obediently. +</P> + +<P> +Emma vanished. +</P> + +<P> +From the direction of her bedroom there presently came the sounds of +dresser drawers hurriedly opened and shut with a bang, of a slipper +dropped on the hard-wood floor, a tune hummed in an absent-minded +absorption under the breath, an excited little laugh nervously stifled. +Buck, in his role of audience, began to clap impatiently and to stamp +with his feet on the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"No gallery!" Emma called in from the hall. "Remember the +temperamental family on the floor below!" A silence—then: "I'm +coming. Shut your eyes and prepare to be jarred by the Buck +balloon-petticoat!" +</P> + +<P> +There was a rustling of silks, a little rush to the center of the big +room, a breathless pause, a sharp snap of finger and thumb. Buck opened +his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +He opened his eyes. Then he closed them and opened them again, +quickly, as we do, sometimes, when we are unwilling to believe that +which we see. What he beheld was this: A very pretty, very flushed, +very bright-eyed woman, her blond hair dressed quaintly after the +fashion of the early 'Sixties, her arms and shoulders bare, a pink-slip +with shoulder-straps in lieu of a bodice, and—he passed a bewildered +hand over his eyes a skirt that billowed and flared and flounced and +spread in a great, graceful circle—a skirt strangely light for all its +fulness—a skirt like, and yet, somehow, unlike those garments seen in +ancient copies of Godey's Lady Book. +</P> + +<P> +"That can't be—you don't mean—what—what IS it?" stammered Buck, +dismayed. +</P> + +<P> +Emma, her arms curved above her head like a ballet-dancer's, +pirouetted, curtsied very low so that the skirt spread all about her on +the floor, like the petals of a flower. +</P> + +<P> +"Hoops, my dear!" +</P> + +<P> +"Hoops!" echoed Buck, in weak protest. "Hoops, my DEAR!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma stroked one silken fold with approving fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Our new leader for spring." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Emma, you're joking!" +</P> + +<P> +She stared, suddenly serious. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean—you don't like it!" +</P> + +<P> +"Like it! For a fancy-dress costume, yes; but as a petticoat for +every-day wear, to be made up by us for our customers! But of course +you're playing a trick on me." He laughed a little weakly and came +toward her. "You can't catch me that way, old girl! It's darned +becoming, Emma—I'll say that." He bent down, smiling. "I'll allow +you to kiss me. And then try me with the real surprise, will you?" +</P> + +<P> +Her coquetry vanished. Her smile fled with it. Her pretty pose was +abandoned. Mrs. T. A. Buck, wife, gave way to Emma McChesney Buck, +business woman. She stiffened a little, as though bracing herself for +a verbal encounter. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll get used to it. I expected you to be jolted at the first shock +of it. I was, myself—when the idea came to me." +</P> + +<P> +Buck passed a frenzied forefinger under his collar, as though it had +suddenly grown too tight for him. +</P> + +<P> +"Used to it! I don't want to get used to it! It's preposterous! You +can't be serious! No woman would wear a garment like that! For five +years skirts have been tighter and tighter——" +</P> + +<P> +"Until this summer they became tightest," interrupted Emma. "They could +go no farther. I knew that meant, 'About face!' I knew it meant not a +slightly wider skirt but a wildly wider skirt. A skirt as bouffant as +the other had been scant. I was sure it wouldn't be a gradual process +at all but a mushroom growth—hobbles to-day, hoops to-morrow. Study +the history of women's clothes, and you'll find that has always been +true." +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Emma," began Buck, desperately; "you're wrong, all wrong! +Here, let me throw this scarf over your shoulders. Now we'll sit down +and talk this thing over sensibly." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll agree to the scarf"—she drew a soft, silken, fringed shawl about +her and immediately one thought of a certain vivid, brilliant portrait +of a hoop-skirted dancer—"but don't ask me to sit down. I'd rebound +like a toy balloon. I've got to convince you of this thing. I'll have +to do it standing." +</P> + +<P> +Buck sank into his chair and dabbed at his forehead with his +handkerchief. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll never convince me, sitting or standing. Emma, I know I fought +the knickerbocker when you originated it, and I know that it turned out +to be a magnificent success. But this is different. The knicker was +practical; this thing's absurd—it's impossible! This is an age of +activity. In Civil War days women minced daintily along when they +walked at all. They stitched on samplers by way of diversion." +</P> + +<P> +"What has all that to do with it?" inquired Emma sweetly. +</P> + +<P> +"Everything. Use a little logic." +</P> + +<P> +"Logic! In a discussion about women's dress! T. A., I'm surprised." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Emma, be reasonable. Good Lord! You're usually clear-sighted +enough. Our mode of living has changed in the last fifty years—our +methods of transit, our pastimes, customs, everything. Imagine a woman +trying to climb a Fifth Avenue 'bus in one of those things. Fancy her +in a hot set of tennis. Women use street-cars, automobiles, airships. +Can you see a subway train full of hoop-skirted clerks, stenographers, +and models? Street-car steps aren't built for it. Office-building +elevators can't stand for it. Six-room apartments won't accommodate +'em. They're fantastic, wild, improbable. You're wrong, Emma—all +wrong!" +</P> + +<P> +She had listened patiently enough, never once attempting to interrupt. +But on her lips was the maddening half-smile of one whose rebuttal is +ready. Now she perched for a moment at the extreme edge of the arm of +a chair. Her skirt subsided decorously. Buck noticed that, with +surprise, even in the midst of his heated protest. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., you've probably forgotten, but those are the very arguments +used when the hobble was introduced. Preposterous, people +said—impossible! Women couldn't walk in 'em. Wouldn't, couldn't sit +down in 'em. Women couldn't run, play tennis, skate in them. The car +steps were too high for them. Well, what happened? Women had to walk +in them, and a new gait became the fashion. Women took lessons in how +to sit down in them. They slashed them for tennis and skating. And +street-car companies all over the country lowered the car steps to +accommodate them. What's true for the hobble holds good for the hoop. +Women will cease to single-foot and learn to undulate when they walk. +They'll widen the car platforms. They'll sit on top the Fifth Avenue +'buses, and you'll never give them a second thought." +</P> + +<P> +"The things don't stay where they belong. I've seen 'em misbehave in +musical comedies," argued Buck miserably. +</P> + +<P> +"That's where my patent comes in. The old hoop was cumbersome, +unwieldy, clumsy. The new skirt, by my patent featherboning process, +is made light, graceful, easily managed. T. A., I predict that by +midsummer a tight skirt will be as rare a sight as a full one was a +year ago." +</P> + +<P> +"Nonsense!" +</P> + +<P> +"We're not quarreling, are we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Quarreling! I rather think not! A man can have his own opinion, +can't he?" +</P> + +<P> +It appeared, however, that he could not. For when they had threshed it +out, inch by inch, as might two partners whose only bond was business, +it was Emma who won. +</P> + +<P> +"Remember, I'm not convinced," Buck warned her; "I'm only beaten by +superior force. But I do believe in your woman's intuition—I'll say +that. It has never gone wrong. I'm banking on it. +</P> + +<P> +"It's woman's intuition when we win," Emma observed, thoughtfully. +"When we lose it's a foolish, feminine notion." +</P> + +<P> +There were to be no half-way measures. The skirt was to be the feature +of the spring line. Cutters and designers were one with Buck in +thinking it a freak garment. Emma reminded them that the same thing +had been said of the hobble on its appearance. +</P> + +<P> +In February, Billy Spalding, veteran skirt-salesman, led a flying wedge +of six on a test-trip that included the Middle West and the Coast. +Their sample-trunks had to be rebuilt to accommodate the new model. +Spalding, shirt-sleeved, whistling dolorously, eyed each garment with a +look of bristling antagonism. Spalding sold skirts on commission. +</P> + +<P> +Emma, surveying his labors, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. +</P> + +<P> +"If you're going to sell that skirt as enthusiastically as you pack it, +you'd better stay here in New York and save the house traveling +expenses." +</P> + +<P> +Spalding ceased to whistle. He held up a billowy sample and gazed at +it. +</P> + +<P> +"Honestly, Mrs. Buck, you know I'd try to sell pretzels in London if +you asked me to. But do you really think any woman alive would be +caught wearing a garment like this in these days?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not only do I think it, Billy; I'm certain of it. This new petticoat +makes me the Lincoln of the skirt trade. I'm literally freeing my +sisters from the shackles that have bound their ankles for five years." +</P> + +<P> +Spalding, unimpressed, folded another skirt. +</P> + +<P> +"Um, maybe! But what's that line about slaves hugging their chains?" +</P> + +<P> +The day following, Spalding and his flying squad scattered to spread +the light among the skirt trade. And things went wrong from the start. +</P> + +<P> +The first week showed an ominous lack of those cheering epistles +beginning, "Enclosed please find," etc. The second was worse. The +third was equally bad. The fourth was final. The second week in +March, Spalding returned from a territory which had always been known +as firmly wedded to the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat. The Middle +West would have none of him. +</P> + +<P> +They held the post-mortem in Emma's bright little office, and that lady +herself seemed to be strangely sunny and undaunted, considering the +completeness of her defeat. She sat at her desk now, very interested, +very bright-eyed, very calm. Buck, in a chair at the side of her desk, +was interested, too, but not so calm. Spalding, who was accustomed to +talk while standing, leaned against the desk, feet crossed, brows +furrowed. As he talked, he emphasized his remarks by jabbing the air +with his pencil. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Emma quietly, "it didn't go." +</P> + +<P> +"It didn't even start," corrected Spalding. +</P> + +<P> +"But why?" demanded Buck. "Why?" +</P> + +<P> +Spalding leaned forward a little, eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll tell you something: When I started out with that little garment, +I thought it was a joke. Before I'd been out with it a week, I began +to like it. In ten days, I was crazy about it, and I believed in it +from the waistband to the hem. On the level, Mrs. Buck, I think it's a +wonder. Now, can you explain that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Emma; "you didn't like it at first because it was a shock +to you. It outraged all your ideas of what a skirt ought to be. Then +you grew accustomed to it. Then you began to see its good points. Why +couldn't you make the trade get your viewpoint?" +</P> + +<P> +"This is why: Out in Manistee and Oshkosh and Terre Haute, the girls +have just really learned the trick of walking in tight skirts. It's as +impossible to convince a Middle West buyer that the exaggerated full +skirt is going to be worn next summer as it would be to prove to him +that men are going to wear sunbonnets. They thought I was trying to +sell 'em masquerade costumes. I may believe in it, and you may believe +in it, and T. A.; but the girls from Joplin—well, they're from Joplin. +And they're waiting to hear from headquarters." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck crossed one leg over the other and sat up with a little sigh. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"It does not," replied Emma McChesney Buck crisply. "If they want to +hear from headquarters, they won't have long to wait." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Emma, don't try to push this thing if it——" +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., please don't look so forgiving. I'd much rather have you +reproach me." +</P> + +<P> +"It's you I'm thinking of, not the skirt." +</P> + +<P> +"But I want you to think of the skirt, too. We've gone into this +thing, and it has cost us thousands. Don't think I'm going to sit +quietly by and watch those thousands trickle out of our hands. We've +played our first card. It didn't take a trick. Here's another." +</P> + +<P> +Buck and Spalding were leaning forward, interested, attentive. There +was that in Emma's vivid, glowing face which did not mean defeat. +</P> + +<P> +"March fifteenth, at Madison Square Garden, there is to be held the +first annual exhibition of the Society for the Promotion of American +Styles for American Women. For one hundred years we've taken our +fashions as Paris dictated, regardless of whether they outraged our +sense of humor or decency or of fitness. This year the American +designer is going to have a chance. Am I an American designer, T. A., +Billy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" in chorus. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I shall exhibit that skirt on a live model at the First Annual +American Fashion Show next month. Every skirt-buyer in the country +will be there. If it takes hold there, it's made—and so are we." +</P> + +<P> +March came, and with it an army of men and women buyers, dependent, for +the first time in their business careers, on the ingenuity of the +American brain. The keen-eyed legions that had advanced on Europe +early, armed with letters of credit—the vast horde that returned each +spring and autumn laden with their spoils—hats, gowns, laces, linens, +silks, embroideries—were obliged to content themselves with what was +to be found in their own camp. +</P> + +<P> +Clever manager that she was, Emma took as much pains with her model as +with the skirt itself. She chose a girl whose demure prettiness and +quiet charm would enhance the possibilities of the skirt's +practicability in the eye of the shrewd buyer. Gertrude, the model, +developed a real interest in the success of the petticoat. Emma knew +enough about the psychology of crowds to realize how this increased her +chances for success. +</P> + +<P> +The much heralded fashion show was to open at one o'clock on the +afternoon of March fifteenth. At ten o'clock that morning, there +breezed in from Chicago a tall, slim, alert young man, who made +straight for the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, walked into the junior partner's private office, and took that +astonished lady in his two strong arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Jock McChesney!" gasped his rumpled mother, emerging from the hug. +"I've been hungry for a sight of you!" She was submerged in a second +hug. "Come here to the window where I can get a real look at you! Why +didn't you wire me? What are you doing away from your own job? How's +business? And why come to-day, of all days, when I can't make a fuss +over you?" +</P> + +<P> +Jock McChesney, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, steady of hand, stood up +well under the satisfied scrutiny of his adoring mother. He smiled +down at her. +</P> + +<P> +"Wanted to surprise you. Here for three reasons—the Abbott +Grape-juice advertising contract, you, and Grace. And why can't you +make a fuss over me, I'd like to know?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma told him. His keen, quick mind required little in the way of +explanation. +</P> + +<P> +"But why didn't you let me in on it sooner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because, son, nothing explains harder than embryo success. I always +prefer to wait until it's grown up and let it do its own explaining." +</P> + +<P> +"But the thing ought to have national advertising," Jock insisted, with +the advertising expert's lightning grasp of its possibilities. "What +that skirt needs is publicity. Why didn't you let me handle——" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know, dear; but you haven't seen the skirt. It won't do to ram +it down their throats. I want to ease it to them first. I want them to +get used to it. It failed utterly on the road, because it jarred their +notion of what a petticoat ought to be. That's due to five years of +sheath skirts." +</P> + +<P> +"But suppose—just for the sake of argument—that it doesn't strike +them right this afternoon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then it's gone, that's all. Six months from now, every skirt-factory +in the country will be manufacturing a similar garment. People will be +ready for it then. I've just tried to cut in ahead of the rest. +Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to do it." +</P> + +<P> +Jock hugged her again at that, to the edification of the office windows +across the way. +</P> + +<P> +"Gad, you're a wiz, mother! Now listen: I 'phoned Grace when I got +in. She's going to meet me here at one. I'll chase over to the office +now on this grape-juice thing and come back here in time for lunch. Is +T. A. in? I'll look in on him a minute. We'll all lunch together, and +then——" +</P> + +<P> +"Can't do it, son. The show opens at one. Gertrude, my model, comes +on at three. She's going to have the stage to herself for ten minutes, +during which she'll make four changes of costume to demonstrate the +usefulness of the skirt for every sort of gown from chiffon to velvet. +Come back here at one, if you like. If I'm not here, come over to the +show. But—lunch! I'd choke." +</P> + +<P> +At twelve-thirty, there scampered into Emma's office a very +white-faced, round-eyed little stock-girl. Emma, deep in a last-minute +discussion with Buck, had a premonition of trouble before the girl +gasped out her message. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Mrs. Buck, Gertie's awful sick!" +</P> + +<P> +"Sick!" echoed Emma and Buck, in duet. Then Emma: +</P> + +<P> +"But she can't be! It's impossible! She was all right a half hour +ago." She was hurrying down the hall as she spoke. "Where is she?" +</P> + +<P> +"They've got her on one of the tables in the workroom. She's moaning +awful." +</P> + +<P> +Gertie's appendix, with that innate sense of the dramatic so often +found in temperamental appendices, had indeed chosen this moment to +call attention to itself. Gertie, the demurely pretty and quietly +charming, was rolled in a very tight ball on the workroom +cutting-table. At one o'clock, she was on her way home in a cab, under +the care of a doctor, Miss Kelly, the bookkeeper, and Jock, who, coming +in gaily at one, had been pressed into service, bewildered but willing. +</P> + +<P> +Three rather tragic figures stared at one another in the junior +partner's office. They were Emma, Buck, and Grace Galt, Jock's +wife-to-be. Grace Galt, slim, lovely, girlish, was known, at +twenty-four, as one of the most expert copy writers in the advertising +world. In her clear-headed, capable manner, she tried to suggest a way +out of the difficulty now. +</P> + +<P> +"But surely the world's full of girls," she said. "It's late, I know; +but any theatrical agency will send a girl over." +</P> + +<P> +"That's just what I tried to avoid," Emma replied. "I wanted to show +this skirt on a sweet, pretty, refined sort of girl who looks and acts +like a lady. One of those blond show girls would kill it." +</P> + +<P> +Gloom settled down again over the three. Emma broke the silence with a +rueful little laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"I think," she said, "that perhaps you're right, T. A., and this is the +Lord's way of showing me that the world is not quite ready for this +skirt." +</P> + +<P> +"You're not beaten yet, Emma," Buck assured her vigorously. "How about +this new girl—what's her name?—Myrtle. She's one of those thin, limp +ones, isn't she? Try her." +</P> + +<P> +"I will," said Emma. "You're right. I'm not beaten yet. I've had to +fight for everything worth while in my life. I'm superstitious about +it now. When things come easy I'm afraid of them." Then, to the +stock-girl, "Annie, tell Myrtle I want to see her." +</P> + +<P> +Silence fell again upon the three. Myrtle, very limp, very thin, very +languid indeed, roused them at her entrance. The hopeful look in +Emma's eyes faded as she beheld her. Myrtle was so obviously limp, so +hopelessly new. +</P> + +<P> +"Annie says you want me to take Gertie's place," drawled Myrtle, +striking a magazine-cover attitude. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know that you are just the—er—type; but perhaps, if you're +willing——" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I didn't come here as a model," said Myrtle, and sagged on +the other hip. "But, as a special favor to you I'm willing to try +it—at special model's rates." +</P> + +<P> +Emma ran a somewhat frenzied hand through her hair. +</P> + +<P> +"Then, as a special favor to me, will you begin by trying to stand up +straight, please? That debutante slouch would kill a queen's +coronation costume." +</P> + +<P> +Myrtle straightened, slumped again. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't help it if I am willowy"—listlessly. +</P> + +<P> +"Your hair!" Myrtle's hand went vaguely to her head. "I can't have you +wear it that way." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, this is the French roll!" protested Myrtle, offended. +</P> + +<P> +"Then do it in a German bun!" snapped Emma. "Any way but that. Will +you walk, please?" +</P> + +<P> +"Walk?"—dully. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, walk; I want to see how you——" +</P> + +<P> +Myrtle walked across the room. A groan came from Emma. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so." She took a long breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Myrtle, listen: That Australian crawl was necessary when our skirts +were so narrow we had to negotiate a curbing before we could take it. +But the skirt you're going to demonstrate is wide. Like that! You're +practically a free woman in it. Step out! Stride! Swing! Walk!" +</P> + +<P> +Myrtle tried it, stumbled, sulked. +</P> + +<P> +Emma, half smiling, half woeful, patted the girl's shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I see; you're wearing a tight one. Well, run in and get into the +skirt. Miss Loeb will help you. Then come back here—and quickly, +please." +</P> + +<P> +The three looked at each other in silence. It was a silence brimming +with eloquent meaning. Each sought encouragement in the eyes of the +other—and failed to find it. Failing, they broke into helpless +laughter. It proved a safety-valve. +</P> + +<P> +"She may do, Emma—when she has her hair done differently, and if +she'll only stand up." +</P> + +<P> +But Emma shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., something tells me you're going to have a wonderful chance to +say, 'I told you so!' at three o'clock this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"You know I wouldn't say it, Emma." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I do know it, dear. But what's the difference, if the chance is +there?" +</P> + +<P> +Suspense settled down on the little office. Billy Spalding entered, +smiling. After five minutes of waiting, even his buoyant spirits sank. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think—if you were to go in and—and sort of help adjust +things——" suggested Buck vaguely. +</P> + +<P> +"No; I don't want to prop her up. She'll have to stand alone when she +gets there. She'll either do, or not. When she enters that door, I'll +know." +</P> + +<P> +When Myrtle entered, wearing the fascinatingly fashioned new model, +they all knew. +</P> + +<P> +Emma spoke decisively. +</P> + +<P> +"That settles it." +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter? Don't it look all right?" demanded Myrtle. +</P> + +<P> +"Take it off, Myrtle." +</P> + +<P> +Then, to the others, as Myrtle, sulking, left the room: +</P> + +<P> +"I can stand to see that skirt die if necessary. But I won't help +murder it." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Mrs. Buck," protested Spalding, almost tearfully, "you've got to +exhibit that skirt. You've got to!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma shook a sorrowing head. +</P> + +<P> +"That wouldn't be an exhibition, Billy. It would be an expose." +</P> + +<P> +Spalding clapped a desperate hand to his bald head. +</P> + +<P> +"If only I had Julian Eltinge's shape, I'd wear it to the show for you +myself." +</P> + +<P> +"That's all it needs now," retorted Emma grimly. +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon, Grace Galt spoke up in her clear, decisive voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait a minute," she said quietly. "I'm going to wear that skirt at +the fashion show." +</P> + +<P> +"You!" cried the three, like a trained trio. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" demanded Grace Galt, coolly. Then: "No; don't tell me why +not. I won't listen." +</P> + +<P> +But Emma, equally cool, would have none of it. +</P> + +<P> +"It's impossible, dear. You're an angel to want to help me. But you +must know it's quite out of the question." +</P> + +<P> +"It's nothing of the kind. This skirt isn't merely a fad. It has a +fortune in it. I'm business woman enough to know that. You've got to +let me do it. It isn't only for yourself. It's for T. A. and for the +future of the firm." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you suppose I'd allow you to stand up before all those people?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? I don't know them. They don't know me. I can make them get +the idea in that skirt. And I'm going to do it. You don't object to +me on the same grounds that you did to Myrtle, do you?" +</P> + +<P> +"You!" burst from the admiring Spalding. "Say, you'd make a +red-flannel petticoat look like crepe de Chine and lace." +</P> + +<P> +"There!" said Grace, triumphant. "That settles it!" And she was off +down the hall. They stood a moment in stunned silence. Then: +</P> + +<P> +"But Jock!" protested Emma, following her. "What will Jock say? Grace! +Grace dear! I can't let you do it! I can't!" +</P> + +<P> +"Just unhook this for me, will you?" replied Grace Galt sweetly. +</P> + +<P> +At two o'clock, Jock McChesney, returned from his errand of mercy, +burst into the office to find mother, step-father, and fiancee all +flown. +</P> + +<P> +"Where? What?" he demanded of the outer office. +</P> + +<P> +"Fashion show!" chorused the office staff +</P> + +<P> +"Might have waited for me," Jock said to himself, much injured. And +hurled himself into a taxi. +</P> + +<P> +There was a crush of motors and carriages for a block on all sides of +Madison Square Garden. He had to wait for what seemed an interminable +time at the box-office. Then he began the task of worming his way +through the close-packed throng in the great auditorium. It was a +crowd such as the great place had not seen since the palmy days of the +horse show. It was a crowd that sparkled and shone in silks and +feathers and furs and jewels. +</P> + +<P> +"Jove, if mother has half a chance at this gang!" Jock told himself. +"If only she has grabbed some one who can really show that skirt!" +</P> + +<P> +He was swept with the crowd toward a high platform at the extreme end +of the auditorium. All about that platform stood hundreds, close +packed, faces raised eagerly, the better to see the slight, graceful, +girlish figure occupying the center of the stage—a figure strangely +familiar to Jock's eyes in spite of its quaintly billowing, ante-bellum +garb. She was speaking. Jock, mouth agape, eyes protruding, ears +straining, heard, as in a daze, the sweet, clear, charmingly modulated +voice: +</P> + +<P> +"The feature of the skirt, ladies and gentlemen, is that it gives a +fulness without weight, something which the skirt-maker has never +before been able to achieve. This is due to the patent featherboning +process invented by Mrs. T. A. Buck, of the T. A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, New York. Note, please, that it has all the +advantages of our grandmother's hoop-skirt, but none of its awkward +features. It is graceful"—she turned slowly, lightly—"it is +bouffant" she twirled on her toes—"it is practical, serviceable, +elegant. It can be made up in any shade, in any material—silk, lace, +crepe de Chine, charmeuse, taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company is prepared to fill orders for immediate——" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again, +heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors turned +upon him, "Well, I'll—be—darned!" +</P> + +<P> +A hand twitched his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His mother, +very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through the throng. As +they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a great burst of +applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, shifting, nodding, +staccato movements which mean approval in a mass of people. +</P> + +<P> +"What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When—did she—did she——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. I tried +to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's done it, I tell +you! She's done it! They love the skirt! Listen to 'em!" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her." +</P> + +<P> +"Angry, dear!" +</P> + +<P> +"Me? No! I'm—I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and looks, +that little girl; she's got nerve—the real kind! Gee, how did I ever +have the gall to ask her to marry me!" +</P> + +<P> +Together they sped toward the door that led to the dressing-rooms. +Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as he looked at this +wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance. +</P> + +<P> +"She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the steps +in one leap. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, T. A.?" said Emma. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. +</P> + +<P> +Which burst of eloquence was interrupted abruptly by a short, squat, +dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in his right, +and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that volatile, voluble +person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. Fromkin, of the "Fromkin +Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd little +eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not here," said Buck abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure—here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got a thing +on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for the rights to +that skirt?" +</P> + +<P> +"Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use to one +who has suggested taking a beloved child from her. +</P> + +<P> +"Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that skirt +right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a shock. +You'll see. They won't buy. They're afraid of it. I'll take it off +your hands and push it right, see? I offer you forty thousand for the +rights to make that skirt and advertise it as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce +Skirt. It Flares!'" +</P> + +<P> +Emma smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"How much?" she asked quizzically. +</P> + +<P> +Abel I. Fromkin gulped. +</P> + +<P> +"Fifty thousand," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Fifty thousand," repeated Emma quietly, and looked at Buck. "Thanks, +Mr. Fromkin! I know, now, that if it's worth fifty thousand to you +to-day as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!' then it's worth +one hundred and fifty thousand to us as the 'T. A. Buck +Balloon-Petticoat. It Billows!'" +</P> + +<P> +And it was. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN +</H3> + +<P> +Women who know the joys and sorrows of a pay envelope do not speak of +girls who work as Working Girls. Neither do they use the term Laboring +Class, as one would speak of a distinct and separate race, like the +Ethiopian. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck was no exception to this rule. Her fifteen years +of man-size work for a man-size salary in the employ of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, precluded that. In those +days, she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, known from coast to coast as +the most successful traveling saleswoman in the business. It was due +to her that no feminine clothes-closet was complete without a +Featherloom dangling from one hook. During those fifteen years she had +educated her son, Jock McChesney, and made a man of him; she had +worked, fought, saved, triumphed, smiled under hardship; and she had +acquired a broad and deep knowledge of those fascinating and +diversified subjects which we lump carelessly under the heading of +Human Nature. She was Mrs. T. A. Buck now, wife of the head of the +firm, and partner in the most successful skirt manufactory in the +country. But the hard-working, clear-thinking, sane-acting habits of +those fifteen years still clung. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps this explained why every machine-girl in the big, bright shop +back of the offices raised adoring eyes when Emma entered the workroom. +Italian, German, Hungarian, Russian—they lifted their faces toward +this source of love and sympathetic understanding as naturally as a +plant turns its leaves toward the sun. They glowed under her praise; +they confided to her their troubles; they came to her with their +joys—and they copied her clothes. +</P> + +<P> +This last caused her some uneasiness. When Mrs. T. A. Buck wore blue +serge, an epidemic of blue serge broke out in the workroom. Did Emma's +spring hat flaunt flowers, the elevators, at closing time, looked like +gardens abloom. If she appeared on Monday morning in severely tailored +white-linen blouse, the shop on Tuesday was a Boston seminary in its +starched primness. +</P> + +<P> +"It worries me," Emma told her husband-partner. "I can't help thinking +of the story of the girl and the pet chameleon. What would happen if I +were to forget myself some day and come down to work in black velvet +and pearls?" +</P> + +<P> +"They'd manage it somehow," Buck assured her. "I don't know just how; +but I'm sure that twenty-four hours later our shop would look like a +Buckingham drawing-room when the court is in mourning." +</P> + +<P> +Emma never ceased to marvel at their ingenuity, at their almost uncanny +clothes-instinct. Their cheap skirts hung and fitted with an art as +perfect as that of a Fifty-seventh Street modiste; their blouses, in +some miraculous way, were of to-day's style, down to the last detail of +cuff or collar or stitching; their hats were of the shape that the +season demanded, set at the angle that the season approved, and +finished with just that repression of decoration which is known as +"single trimming." They wore their clothes with a chic that would make +the far-famed Parisian outriere look dowdy and down at heel in +comparison. Upper Fifth Avenue, during the shopping or tea-hour, has +been sung, painted, vaunted, boasted. Its furs and millinery, its eyes +and figure, its complexion and ankles have flashed out at us from ten +thousand magazine covers, have been adjectived in reams of +Sunday-supplement stories. Who will picture Lower Fifth Avenue between +five and six, when New York's unsung beauties pour into the streets +from a thousand loft-buildings? Theirs is no mere empty pink-and-white +prettiness. Poverty can make prettiness almost poignantly lovely, for +it works with a scalpel. Your Twenty-sixth Street beauty has a certain +wistful appeal that your Forty-sixth Street beauty lacks; her very +bravado, too, which falls just short of boldness, adds a final piquant +touch. In the face of the girl who works, whether she be a +spindle-legged errand-girl or a ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyer, you +will find both vivacity and depth of expression. What she loses in +softness and bloom she gains in a something that peeps from her eyes, +that lurks in the corners of her mouth. Emma never tired of studying +them—these girls with their firm, slim throats, their lovely faces, +their Oriental eyes, and their conscious grace. Often, as she looked, +an unaccountable mist of tears would blur her vision. +</P> + +<P> +So that sunny little room whose door was marked "MRS. BUCK" had come to +be more than a mere private office for the transaction of business. It +was a clearing-house for trouble; it was a shrine, a confessional, and +a court of justice. When Carmela Colarossi, her face swollen with +weeping, told a story of parental harshness grown unbearable, Emma +would put aside business to listen, and six o'clock would find her +seated in the dark and smelly Colarossi kitchen, trying, with all her +tact and patience and sympathy, to make home life possible again for +the flashing-eyed Carmela. When the deft, brown fingers of Otti Markis +became clumsy at her machine, and her wage slumped unaccountably from +sixteen to six dollars a week, it was in Emma's quiet little office +that it became clear why Otti's eyes were shadowed and why Otti's mouth +drooped so pathetically. Emma prescribed a love philter made up of +common sense, understanding, and world-wisdom. Otti took it, only half +comprehending, but sure of its power. In a week, Otti's eyes were +shadowless, her lips smiling, her pay-envelope bulging. But it was in +Sophy Kumpf that the T. A. Buck Company best exemplified its policy. +Sophy Kumpf had come to Buck's thirty years before, slim, pink-cheeked, +brown-haired. She was a grandmother now, at forty-six, broad-bosomed, +broad-hipped, but still pink of cheek and brown of hair. In those +thirty years she had spent just three away from Buck's. She had brought +her children into the world; she had fed them and clothed them and sent +them to school, had Sophy, and seen them married, and helped them to +bring their children into the world in turn. In her round, red, +wholesome face shone a great wisdom, much love, and that infinite +understanding which is born only of bitter experience. She had come to +Buck's when old T. A. was just beginning to make Featherlooms a +national institution. She had seen his struggles, his prosperity; she +had grieved at his death; she had watched young T. A. take the reins in +his unaccustomed hands, and she had gloried in Emma McChesney's rise +from office to salesroom, from salesroom to road, from road to private +office and recognized authority. Sophy had left her early work far +behind. She had her own desk now in the busy workshop, and it was she +who allotted the piece-work, marked it in her much-thumbed ledger—that +powerful ledger which, at the week's end, decided just how plump or +thin each pay-envelope would be. So the shop and office at T. A. +Buck's were bound together by many ties of affection and sympathy and +loyalty; and these bonds were strongest where, at one end, they touched +Emma McChesney Buck, and, at the other, faithful Sophy Kumpf. Each a +triumphant example of Woman in Business. +</P> + +<P> +It was at this comfortable stage of Featherloom affairs that the +Movement struck the T. A. Buck Company. Emma McChesney Buck had never +mingled much in movements. Not that she lacked sympathy with them; she +often approved of them, heart and soul. But she had been heard to say +that the Movers got on her nerves. Those well-dressed, glib, staccato +ladies who spoke with such ease from platforms and whose pictures +stared out at one from the woman's page failed, somehow, to convince +her. When Emma approved a new movement, it was generally in spite of +them, never because of them. She was brazenly unapologetic when she +said that she would rather listen to ten minutes of Sophy Kumpf's +world-wisdom than to an hour's talk by the most magnetic and +silken-clad spellbinder in any cause. For fifteen business years, in +the office, on the road, and in the thriving workshop, Emma McChesney +had met working women galore. Women in offices, women in stores, women +in hotels—chamber-maids, clerks, buyers, waitresses, actresses in road +companies, women demonstrators, occasional traveling saleswomen, women +in factories, scrubwomen, stenographers, models—every grade, type and +variety of working woman, trained and untrained. She never missed a +chance to talk with them. She never failed to learn from them. She +had been one of them, and still was. She was in the position of one who +is on the inside, looking out. Those other women urging this cause or +that were on the outside, striving to peer in. +</P> + +<P> +The Movement struck T. A. Buck's at eleven o'clock Monday morning. +Eleven o'clock Monday morning in the middle of a busy fall season is +not a propitious moment for idle chit-chat. The three women who +stepped out of the lift at the Buck Company's floor looked very much +out of place in that hummingly busy establishment and appeared, on the +surface, at least, very chit-chatty indeed. So much so, that T. A. +Buck, glancing up from the cards which had preceded them, had +difficulty in repressing a frown of annoyance. T. A. Buck, during his +college-days, and for a lamentably long time after, had been known as +"Beau" Buck, because of his faultless clothes and his charming manner. +His eyes had something to do with it, too, no doubt. He had lived down +the title by sheer force of business ability. No one thought of using +the nickname now, though the clothes, the manner, and the eyes were the +same. At the entrance of the three women, he had been engrossed in the +difficult task of selling a fall line to Mannie Nussbaum, of Portland, +Oregon. Mannie was what is known as a temperamental buyer. He couldn't +be forced; he couldn't be coaxed; he couldn't be led. But when he +liked a line he bought like mad, never cancelled, and T. A. Buck had +just got him going. It spoke volumes for his self-control that he +could advance toward the waiting three, his manner correct, his +expression bland. +</P> + +<P> +"I am Mr. Buck," he said. "Mrs. Buck is very much engaged. I +understand your visit has something to do with the girls in the shop. +I'm sure our manager will be able to answer any questions——" +</P> + +<P> +The eldest women raised a protesting, white-gloved hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no—no, indeed! We must see Mrs. Buck." She spoke in the crisp, +decisive platform-tones of one who is often addressed as "Madam +Chairman." +</P> + +<P> +Buck took a firmer grip on his self-control. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry; Mrs. Buck is in the cutting-room." +</P> + +<P> +"We'll wait," said the lady, brightly. She stepped back a pace. "This +is Miss Susan H. Croft"—indicating a rather sparse person of very +certain years—"But I need scarcely introduce her." +</P> + +<P> +"Scarcely," murmured Buck, and wondered why. +</P> + +<P> +"This is my daughter, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells." +</P> + +<P> +Buck found himself wondering why this slim, negative creature should +have such sad eyes. There came an impatient snort from Mannie +Nussbaum. Buck waved a hasty hand in the direction of Emma's office. +</P> + +<P> +"If you'll wait there, I'll send in to Mrs. Buck." +</P> + +<P> +The three turned toward Emma's bright little office. Buck scribbled a +hasty word on one of the cards. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck was leaning over the great cutting-table, shears in +hand. It might almost be said that she sprawled. Her eyes were very +bright, and her cheeks were very pink. Across the table stood a +designer and two cutters, and they were watching Emma with an +intentness as flattering as it was sincere. They were looking not only +at cloth but at an idea. +</P> + +<P> +"Get that?" asked Emma crisply, and tapped the pattern spread before +her with the point of her shears. "That gives you the fulness without +bunching, d'you see?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," assented Koritz, head designer; "but when you get it cut you'll +find this piece is wasted, ain't it?" He marked out a triangular +section of cloth with one expert forefinger. +</P> + +<P> +"No; that works into the ruffle," explained Emma. "Here, I'll cut it. +Then you'll see." +</P> + +<P> +She grasped the shears firmly in her right hand, smoothed the cloth +spread before her with a nervous little pat of her left, pushed her +bright hair back from her forehead, and prepared to cut. At which +critical moment there entered Annie, the errand-girl, with the three +bits of white pasteboard. +</P> + +<P> +Emma glanced down at them and waved Annie away. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't see them. Busy." +</P> + +<P> +Annie stood her ground. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Buck said you'd see 'em. They're waiting." +</P> + +<P> +Emma picked up one of the cards. On it Buck had scribbled a single +word: "Movers." Mrs. T. A. Buck smiled. A little malicious gleam +came into her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Show 'em in here, Annie," she commanded, with a wave of the huge +shears. "I'll teach 'em to interrupt me when I've got my hands in the +bluing-water." +</P> + +<P> +She bent over the table again, measuring with her keen eye. When the +three were ushered in a moment later, she looked up briefly and nodded, +then bent over the table again. But in that brief moment she had the +three marked, indexed and pigeonholed. If one could have looked into +that lightning mind of hers, one would have found something like this: +</P> + +<P> +"Hmm! What Ida Tarbell calls 'Restless women.' Money, and always have +had it. Those hats were born in one of those exclusive little shops +off the Avenue. Rich but somber. They think they're advanced, but +they still resent the triumph of the motor-car over the horse. That +girl can't call her soul her own. Good eyes, but too sad. He probably +didn't suit mother." +</P> + +<P> +What she said was: +</P> + +<P> +"Howdy-do. We're just bringing a new skirt into the world. I thought +you might like to be in at the birth." +</P> + +<P> +"How very interesting!" chirped the two older women. The girl said +nothing, but a look of anticipation brightened her eyes. It deepened +and glowed as Emma McChesney Buck bent to her task and the great jaws +of the shears opened and shut on the virgin cloth. Six pairs of eyes +followed the fascinating steel before which the cloth rippled and fell +away, as water is cleft by the prow of a stanch little boat. Around +the curves went the shears, guided by Emma's firm white hands, +snipping, slashing, doubling on itself, a very swashbuckler of a shears. +</P> + +<P> +"There!" exclaimed Emma at last, and dropped the shears on the table +with a clatter. "Put that together and see whether it makes a skirt or +not. Now, ladies!" +</P> + +<P> +The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that comes up +from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off successfully, with a +final shower of stars. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells. +</P> + +<P> +"Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the way to her +office. +</P> + +<P> +The three followed in silence. They were strangely silent, too, as +they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously enough, it +was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished and +actually ready to wear." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss Orton-Wells +had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the girl's hand just once. +At that there came a look into Miss Orton-Wells' eyes, and you saw that +most decidedly she had her charm. +</P> + +<P> +Up spoke Mrs. Orton-Wells. +</P> + +<P> +"Gladys is such an enthusiast! That's really her reason for being +here. Gladys is very much interested in working girls. In fact, we +are all, as you probably know, intensely interested in the working +woman." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you!" said Emma McChesney Buck. +</P> + +<P> +"That's very kind. We working women are very grateful to you." +</P> + +<P> +"We!" exclaimed Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan Croft blankly, and in +perfect time. +</P> + +<P> +Emma smiled sweetly. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely you'll admit that I'm a working woman." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Susan H. Croft was not a person to be trifled with. She +elucidated acidly. +</P> + +<P> +"We mean women who work with their hands." +</P> + +<P> +"By what power do you think those shears were moved across the +cutting-table? We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly. +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring Class." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to Saturday, +inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the laboring class I +don't want to belong." +</P> + +<P> +It was here that Mrs. Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to be +trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, fixed Emma +Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, sails spread. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious errand. It +ought to interest you vitally because of the position you occupy in the +world of business. We are launching a campaign against the +extravagant, ridiculous, and oftentimes indecent dress of the working +girl, with especial reference to the girl who works in garment +factories. They squander their earnings in costumes absurdly unfitted +to their station in life. Our plan is to influence them in the +direction of neatness, modesty, and economy in dress. At present each +tries to outdo the other in style and variety of costume. Their shoes +are high-heeled, cloth-topped, their blouses lacy and collarless, their +hats absurd. We propose a costume which shall be neat, becoming, and +appropriate. Not exactly a uniform, perhaps, but something with a +fixed idea in cut, color, and style. A corps of twelve young ladies +belonging to our best families has been chosen to speak to the shop +girls at noon meetings on the subject of good taste, health, and +morality in women's dress. My daughter Gladys is one of them. In this +way, we hope to convince them that simplicity, and practicality, and +neatness are the only proper notes in the costume of the working girl. +Occupying as you do a position unique in the business world, Mrs. Buck, +we expect much from your cooperation with us in this cause." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck had been gazing at Mrs. Orton-Wells with an +intentness as flattering as it was unfeigned. But at the close of Mrs. +Orton-Wells' speech she was strangely silent. She glanced down at her +shoes. Now, Emma McChesney Buck had a weakness for smart shoes which +her slim, well-arched foot excused. Hers were what might be called +intelligent-looking feet. There was nothing thick, nothing clumsy, +nothing awkward about them. And Emma treated them with the +consideration they deserved. They were shod now, in a pair of slim, +aristocratic, and modish ties above which the grateful eye caught a +flashing glimpse of black-silk stocking. Then her eye traveled up her +smartly tailored skirt, up the bodice of that well-made and becoming +costume until her glance rested on her own shoulder and paused. Then +she looked up at Mrs. Orton-Wells. The eyes of Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss +Susan H. Croft, and Miss Gladys Orton-Wells had, by some strange power +of magnetism, followed the path of Emma's eyes. They finished just one +second behind her, so that when she raised her eyes it was to encounter +theirs. +</P> + +<P> +"I have explained," retorted Mrs. Orton-Wells, tartly, in reply to +nothing, seemingly, "that our problem is with the factory girl. She +represents a distinct and separate class." +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck nodded: +</P> + +<P> +"I understand. Our girls are very young—eighteen, twenty, twenty-two. +At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments haven't the strong +appeal that you might think they have." +</P> + +<P> +"They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells. +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe," said Emma Buck gently. "But to me it seems just as reasonable +to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear pink-and-white +blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to bear sober russets in +the autumn." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss +Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?" +</P> + +<P> +Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells. Gladys was wearing black, and black +did not become her. It made her creamy skin sallow. Her suit was +severely tailored, and her hat was small and harshly outlined, and her +hair was drawn back from her face. All this, in spite of the fact that +Miss Orton-Wells was of the limp and fragile type, which demands +ruffles, fluffiness, flowing lines and frou-frou. Emma's glance at the +suppressed Gladys was as fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to +bring her to a decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in our +shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak. If she can +convince the girls that a—er—fixed idea in cut, color, and style is +the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly willing that +they be convinced." +</P> + +<P> +Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer, +</P> + +<P> +"Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat bobbed +and dipped to Emma. The austere Miss Susan H. Croft unbent in a +nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells remained silent, +thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on Emma's face. +</P> + +<P> +A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office door. +Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, red-cheeked woman who +entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair with work-roughened fingers. +</P> + +<P> +Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers. +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf—Mrs. +Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft"—Sophy threw her a keen glance; she +knew that name—"and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the four, Sophy was the +most at ease. +</P> + +<P> +"Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kumpf. +</P> + +<P> +The three bowed, but did not commit themselves. Emma, her hand still +on Sophy's, elaborated: +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy Kumpf has been with the T. A. Buck Company for thirty years. +She could run this business single-handed, if she had to. She knows any +machine in the shop, can cut a pattern, keep books, run the entire +plant if necessary. If there's anything about petticoats that Sophy +doesn't know, it's because it hasn't been invented yet. Sophy was +sixteen when she came to Buck's. I've heard she was the prettiest and +best dressed girl in the shop." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now, Mrs. Buck!" remonstrated Sophy. +</P> + +<P> +Emma tried to frown as she surveyed Sophy's bright eyes, her rosy +cheeks, her broad bosom, her ample hips—all that made Sophy an object +to comfort and rest the eye. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't dispute, Sophy. Sophy has educated her children, married them +off, and welcomed their children. She thinks that excuses her for +having been frivolous and extravagant at sixteen. But we know better, +don't we? I'm using you as a horrible example, Sophy." +</P> + +<P> +Sophy turned affably to the listening three. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't let her string you," she said, and winked one knowing eye. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Orton-Wells stiffened. Miss Susan H. Croft congealed. But Miss +Gladys Orton-Wells smiled. And then Emma knew she was right. +</P> + +<P> +"Sophy, who's the prettiest girl in our shop? And the best dressed?" +</P> + +<P> +"Lily Bernstein," Sophy made prompt answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Send her in to us, will you? And give her credit for lost time when +she comes back to the shop." +</P> + +<P> +Sophy, with a last beamingly good-natured smile, withdrew. Five +minutes later, when Lily Bernstein entered the office, Sophy qualified +as a judge of beauty. Lily Bernstein was a tiger-lily—all browns and +golds and creams, all graciousness and warmth and lovely curves. As +she came into the room, Gladys Orton-Wells seemed as bloodless and pale +and ineffectual as a white moth beside a gorgeous tawny butterfly. +</P> + +<P> +Emma presented the girl as formally as she had Sophy Kumpf. And Lily +Bernstein smiled upon them, and her teeth were as white and even as one +knew they would be before she smiled. Lily had taken off her +shop-apron. Her gown was blue serge, cheap in quality, flawless as to +cut and fit, and incredibly becoming. Above it, her vivid face glowed +like a golden rose. +</P> + +<P> +"Lily," said Emma, "Miss Orton-Wells is going to speak to the girls +this noon. I thought you might help by telling her whatever she wants +to know about the girls' work and all that, and by making her feel at +home." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, sure," said Lily, and smiled again her heart-warming smile. +"I'd love to." +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Orton-Wells," went on Emma smoothly, "wants to speak to the girls +about clothes." +</P> + +<P> +Lily looked again at Miss Orton-Wells, and she did not mean to be +cruel. Then she looked quickly at Emma, to detect a possible joke. +But Mrs. Buck's face bore no trace of a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Clothes!" repeated Lily. And a slow red mounted to Gladys +Orton-Wells' pale face. When Lily went out Sunday afternoons, she might +have passed for a millionaire's daughter if she hadn't been so well +dressed. +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose you take Miss Orton-Wells into the shop," suggested Emma, "so +that she may have some idea of the size and character of our family +before she speaks to it. How long shall you want to speak?" +</P> + +<P> +Miss Orton-Wells started nervously, stammered a little, stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, ten minutes," said Mrs. Orton-Wells graciously. +</P> + +<P> +"Five," said Gladys, quickly, and followed Lily Bernstein into the +workroom. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan H. Croft gazed after them. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather attractive, that girl, in a coarse way," mused Mrs. +Orton-Wells. "If only we can teach them to avoid the cheap and tawdry. +If only we can train them to appreciate the finer things in life. Of +course, their life is peculiar. Their problems are not our problems; +their——" +</P> + +<P> +"Their problems are just exactly our problems," interrupted Emma +crisply. "They use garlic instead of onion, and they don't bathe as +often as we do; but, then, perhaps we wouldn't either, if we hadn't +tubs and showers so handy." +</P> + +<P> +In the shop, queer things were happening to Gladys Orton-Wells. At her +entrance into the big workroom, one hundred pairs of eyes had lifted, +dropped, and, in that one look, condemned her hat, suit, blouse, veil +and tout ensemble. When you are on piece-work you squander very little +time gazing at uplift visitors in the wrong kind of clothes. +</P> + +<P> +Gladys Orton-Wells looked about the big, bright workroom. The noonday +sun streamed in from a dozen great windows. There seemed, somehow, to +be a look of content and capableness about those heads bent so busily +over the stitching. +</P> + +<P> +"It looks—pleasant," said Gladys Orton-Wells. +</P> + +<P> +"It ain't bad. Of course it's hard sitting all day. But I'd rather do +that than stand from eight to six behind a counter. And there's good +money in it." +</P> + +<P> +Gladys Orton-Wells turned wistful eyes on friendly little Lily +Bernstein. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to earn money," she said. "I'd like to work." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why don't you?" demanded Lily. +</P> + +<P> +"Work's all the style this year. They're all doing it. Look at the +Vanderbilts and that Morgan girl, and the whole crowd. These days you +can't tell whether the girl at the machine next to you lives in the +Bronx or on Fifth Avenue." +</P> + +<P> +"It must be wonderful to earn your own clothes." +</P> + +<P> +"Believe me," laughed Lily Bernstein, "it ain't so wonderful when +you've had to do it all your life." +</P> + +<P> +She studied the pale girl before her with brows thoughtfully knit. +Lily had met too many uplifters to be in awe of them. Besides, a +certain warm-hearted friendliness was hers for every one she met. So, +like the child she was, she spoke what was in her mind: +</P> + +<P> +"Say, listen, dearie. I wouldn't wear black if I was you. And that +plain stuff—it don't suit you. I'm like that, too. There's some +things I can wear and others I look fierce in. I'd like you in one of +them big flat hats and a full skirt like you see in the ads, with lots +of ribbons and tag ends and bows on it. D'you know what I mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"My mother was a Van Cleve," said Gladys drearily, as though that +explained everything. So it might have, to any but a Lily Bernstein. +</P> + +<P> +Lily didn't know what a Van Cleve was, but she sensed it as a drawback. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you care. Everybody's folks have got something the matter with +'em. Especially when you're a girl. But if I was you, I'd go right +ahead and do what I wanted to." +</P> + +<P> +In the doorway at the far end of the shop appeared Emma with her two +visitors. Mrs. Orton-Wells stopped and said something to a girl at a +machine, and her very posture and smile reeked of an offensive +kindliness, a condescending patronage. +</P> + +<P> +Gladys Orton-Wells did a strange thing. She saw her mother coming +toward her. She put one hand on Lily Bernstein's arm and she spoke +hurriedly and in a little gasping voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen! Would you—would you marry a man who hadn't any money to +speak of, and no sort of family, if you loved him, even if your mother +wouldn't—wouldn't——" +</P> + +<P> +"Would I! Say, you go out to-morrow morning and buy yourself one of +them floppy hats and a lace waist over flesh-colored chiffon and get +married in it. Don't get it white, with your coloring. Get it kind of +cream. You're so grand and thin, this year's things will look lovely +on you." +</P> + +<P> +A bell shrilled somewhere in the shop. A hundred machines stopped +their whirring. A hundred heads came up with a sigh of relief. Chairs +were pushed back, aprons unbuttoned. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck stepped forward and raised a hand for attention. +The noise of a hundred tongues was stilled. +</P> + +<P> +"Girls, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells is going to speak to you for five +minutes on the subject of dress. Will you give her your attention, +please. The five minutes will be added to your noon hour." +</P> + +<P> +Gladys Orton-Wells looked down at her hands for one terrified moment, +then she threw her head up bravely. There was no lack of color in her +cheeks now. She stepped to the middle of the room. +</P> + +<P> +"What I have to say won't take five minutes," she said, in her clear, +well-bred tones. +</P> + +<P> +"You all dress so smartly, and I'm such a dowd, I just want to ask you +whether you think I ought to get blue, or that new shade of gray for a +traveling-suit." +</P> + +<P> +And the shop, hardened to the eccentricities of noonday speakers, made +composed and ready answer: +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, get blue; it's always good." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," laughed Gladys Orton-Wells, and was off down the hall and +away, with never a backward glance at her gasping and outraged mother. +</P> + +<P> +Emma McChesney Buck took Lily Bernstein's soft cheek between thumb and +forefinger and pinched it ever so fondly. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew you'd do it, Judy O'Grady," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Judy O'Who?" +</P> + +<P> +"O'Grady—a lady famous in history." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, now, quit your kiddin', Mrs. Buck!" said Lily Bernstein. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN ETUDE FOR EMMA +</H3> + +<P> +If you listen long enough, and earnestly enough, and with ear +sufficiently attuned to the music of this sphere there will come to you +this reward: The violins and oboes and 'cellos and brasses of humanity +which seemed all at variance with each other will unite as one +instrument; seeming discords and dissonances will blend into harmony, +and the wail and blare and thrum of humanity's orchestra will sound in +your ear the sublime melody of that great symphony called Life. +</P> + +<P> +In her sunny little private office on the twelfth floor of the great +loft-building that housed the T. A. Buck Company, Emma McChesney Buck +sat listening to the street-sounds that were wafted to her, mellowed by +height and distance. The noises, taken separately, were the +nerve-racking sounds common to a busy down-town New York cross-street. +By the time they reached the little office on the twelfth floor, they +were softened, mellowed, debrutalized, welded into a weird choirlike +chant first high, then low, rising, swelling, dying away, rising again +to a dull roar, with now and then vast undertones like the rumbling of +a cathedral pipe-organ. Emma knew that the high, clear tenor note was +the shrill cry of the lame "newsie" at the corner of Sixth Avenue and +Twenty-sixth Street. Those deep, thunderous bass notes were the +combined reverberation of nearby "L" trains, distant subway and +clanging surface cars. That sharp staccato was a motorman clanging his +bell of warning. These things she knew. But she liked, nevertheless, +to shut her eyes for a moment in the midst of her busy day and listen +to the chant of the city as it came up to her, subdued, softened, +strangely beautified. The sound saddened even while it filled her with +a certain exaltation. We have no one word for that sensation. The +German (there's a language!) has it—Weltschmerz. +</P> + +<P> +As distance softened the harsh sounds to her ears, so time and +experience had given her a perspective on life itself. She saw it, not +as a series of incidents, pleasant and unpleasant, but as a great +universal scheme too mighty to comprehend—a scheme that always worked +itself out in some miraculous way. +</P> + +<P> +She had had a singularly full life, had Emma McChesney Buck. A life +replete with work, leavened by sorrows, sweetened with happiness. +These ingredients make for tolerance. She saw, for example, how the +capable, modern staff in the main business office had forged ahead of +old Pop Henderson. Pop Henderson had been head bookkeeper for years. +But the pen in his trembling hand made queer spidery marks in the +ledgers now, and his figure seven was very likely to look like a +drunken letter "z." The great bulk of his work was done by the +capable, comely Miss Kelly who could juggle figures like a Cinquevalli. +His shaking, blue-veined yellow hand was no match for Miss Kelly's +cool, firm fingers. But he stayed on at Buck's, and no one dreamed of +insulting him with talk of a pension, least of all Emma. She saw the +work-worn pathetic old man not only as a figure but as a symbol. +</P> + +<P> +Jock McChesney, very young, very handsome, very successful, coming on +to New York from Chicago to be married in June, found his mother +wrapped in this contemplative calm. Now, Emma McChesney Buck, mother +of an about-to-be-married son, was also surprisingly young and +astonishingly handsome and highly successful. Jock, in a lucid moment +the day before his wedding, took occasion to comment rather resentfully +on his mother's attitude. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me," he said gloomily, "that for a mother whose only son +is about to be handed over to what the writers call the other woman, +you're pretty resigned, not to say cheerful." +</P> + +<P> +Emma glanced up at him as he stood there, so tall and straight and +altogether good to look at, and the glow of love and pride in her eyes +belied the lightness of her words. +</P> + +<P> +"I know it," she said, with mock seriousness, "and it worries me. I +can't imagine why I fail to feel those pangs that mothers are supposed +to suffer at this time. I ought to rend my garments and beat my +breast, but I can't help thinking of what a stunning girl Grace Galt +is, and what a brain she has, and how lucky you are to get her. Any +girl—with the future that girl had in the advertising field—who'll +give up four thousand a year and her independence to marry a man does +it for love, let me tell you. If anybody knows you better than your +mother, son, I'd hate to know who it is. And if anybody loves you more +than your mother—well, we needn't go into that, because it would have +to be hypothetical, anyway. You see, Jock, I've loved you so long and +so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and I love +you, not in spite of them but because of them. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm not +perfect, but a fellow——" +</P> + +<P> +"Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when she +discovers that you never close a closet door! When I contemplate her +emotions on hearing your howl at finding one seed in your orange juice +at breakfast! When she learns of your secret and unholy passion for +neckties that have a dash of red in 'em, and how you have to be +restrained by force from——" +</P> + +<P> +With a simulated roar of rage, Jock McChesney fell upon his mother with +a series of bear-hugs that left her flushed, panting, limp, but +bright-eyed. +</P> + +<P> +It was to her husband that Emma revealed the real source of her Spartan +calm. The wedding was over. There had been a quiet little +celebration, after which Jock McChesney had gone West with his very +lovely young wife. Emma had kissed her very tenderly, very soberly +after the brief ceremony. "Mrs. McChesney," she had said, and her +voice shook ever so little; "Mrs. Jock McChesney!" And the new Mrs. +McChesney, a most astonishingly intuitive young woman indeed, had +understood. +</P> + +<P> +T. A. Buck, being a man, puzzled over it a little. That night, when +Emma had reached the kimono and hair-brushing stage, he ventured to +speak his wonderment. +</P> + +<P> +"D'you know, Emma, you were about the calmest and most serene mother +that I ever did see at a son's wedding. Of course I didn't expect you +to have hysterics, or anything like that. I've always said that, when +it came to repose and self-control, you could make the German Empress +look like a hoyden. But I always thought that, at such times, a mother +viewed her new daughter-in-law as a rival, that the very sight of her +filled her with a jealous rage like that of a tigress whose cub is +taken from her. I must say you were so smiling and urbane that I +thought it was almost uncomplimentary to the young couple. You didn't +even weep, you unnatural woman!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma, seated before her dressing-table, stopped brushing her hair and +sat silent a moment, looking down with unseeing eyes at the brush in +her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I know it, T. A. Would you like to have me tell you why?" +</P> + +<P> +He came over to her then and ran a tender hand down the length of her +bright hair. Then he kissed the top of her head. This satisfactory +performance he capped by saying: +</P> + +<P> +"I think I know why. It's because the minister hesitated a minute and +looked from you to Grace and back again, not knowing which was the +bride. The way you looked in that dress, Emma, was enough to reconcile +any woman to losing her entire family." +</P> + +<P> +"T. A., you do say the nicest things to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Like 'em, Emma?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like 'em? You know perfectly well that you never can offend me by +making me compliments like that. I not only like them; I actually +believe them!" +</P> + +<P> +"That's because I mean them, Emma. Now, out with that reason!" +</P> + +<P> +Emma stood up then and put her hands on his shoulders. But she was not +looking at him. She was gazing past him, her eyes dreamy, +contemplative. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know whether I'll be able to explain to you just how I feel +about it. I'll probably make a mess of it. But I'll try. You see, +dear, it's just this way: Two years ago—a year ago, even—I might +have felt just that sensation of personal resentment and loss. But +somehow, lately, I've been looking at life through—how shall I put +it?—through seven-league glasses. I used to see life in its relation +to me and mine. Now I see it in terms of my relation to it. Do you +get me? I was the soloist, and the world my orchestral accompaniment. +Lately, I've been content just to step back with the other instruments +and let my little share go to make up a more perfect whole. In those +years, long before I met you, when Jock was all I had in the world, I +worked and fought and saved that he might have the proper start, the +proper training, and environment. And I did succeed in giving him +those things. Well, as I looked at him there to-day I saw him, not as +my son, my property that was going out of my control into the hands of +another woman, but as a link in the great chain that I had helped to +forge—a link as strong and sound and perfect as I could make it. I +saw him, not as my boy, Jock McChesney, but as a unit. When I am gone +I shall still live in him, and he in turn will live in his children. +There! I've muddled it—haven't I?—as I said I would. But I think"— +And she looked into her husband's glowing eyes.—"No; I'm sure you +understand. And when I die, T. A.——" +</P> + +<P> +"You, Emma!" And he held her close, and then held her off to look at +her through quizzical, appreciative eyes. "Why, girl, I can't imagine +you doing anything so passive." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney Buck as +she worked and played and constructed, and helped others to work and +play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. Buck. She did not +seem a woman who was looking at life objectively. As she went about +her home in the evening, or the office, the workroom, or the showrooms +during the day, adjusting this, arranging that, smoothing out snarls, +solving problems of business or household, she was very much alive, +very vital, very personal, very electric. In that year there came to +her many letters from Jock and Grace—happy letters, all of them, some +with an undertone of great seriousness, as is fitting when two people +are readjusting their lives. Then, in spring, came the news of the +baby. The telegram came to Emma as she sat in her office near the +close of a busy day. As she read it and reread it, the slip of paper +became a misty yellow with vague lines of blue dancing about on it; +then it became a blur of nothing in particular, as Emma's tears fell on +it in a little shower of joy and pride and wonder at the eternal +miracle. +</P> + +<P> +Then she dried her eyes, mopped the telegram and her lace jabot +impartially, went across the hall and opened the door marked "T. A. +BUCK." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. looked up from his desk, smiled, held out a hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Girl or boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Girl, of course," said Emma tremulously, "and her name is Emma +McChesney." +</P> + +<P> +T. A. stood up and put an arm about his wife's shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Lean on me, grandma," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Fiend!" retorted Emma, and reread the telegram happily. She folded it +then, with a pensive sigh, "I hope she'll look like Grace. But with +Jock's eyes. They were wasted in a man. At any rate, she ought to be +a raving, tearing beauty with that father and mother." +</P> + +<P> +"What about her grandmother, when it comes to looks! Yes, and think of +the brain she'll have," Buck reminded her excitedly. "Great Scott! +With a grandmother who has made the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat a +household word, and a mother who was the cleverest woman advertising +copy-writer in New York, this young lady ought to be a composite Hetty +Green, Madame de Stael, Hypatia, and Emma McChesney Buck. She'll be a +lady wizard of finance or a——" +</P> + +<P> +"She'll be nothing of the kind," Emma disputed calmly. "That child +will be a throwback. The third generation generally is. With a +militant mother and a grandmother such as that child has, she'll just +naturally be a clinging vine. She'll be a reversion to type. She'll +be the kind who'll make eyes and wear pale blue and be crazy about new +embroidery-stitches. Just mark my words, T. A." +</P> + +<P> +Buck had a brilliant idea. +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you pack a bag and run over to Chicago for a few days and +see this marvel of the age?" +</P> + +<P> +But Emma shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Not now, T. A. Later. Let the delicate machinery of that new +household adjust itself and begin to run smoothly and sweetly again. +Anyone who might come in now—even Jock's mother—would be only an +outsider." +</P> + +<P> +So she waited very patiently and considerately. There was much to +occupy her mind that spring. Business was unexpectedly and +gratifyingly good. Then, too, one of their pet dreams was being +realized; they were to have their own house in the country, at +Westchester. Together they had pored over the plans. It was to be a +house of wide, spacious verandas, of fireplaces, of bookshelves, of +great, bright windows, and white enamel and cheerful chintz. By the +end of May it was finished, furnished, and complete. At which a +surprising thing happened; and yet, not so surprising. A demon of +restlessness seized Emma McChesney Buck. It had been a busy, happy +winter, filled with work. Now that it was finished, there came upon +Emma and Buck that unconscious and quite natural irritation which +follows a long winter spent together by two people, no matter how much +in harmony. Emma pulled herself up now and then, horrified to find a +rasping note of impatience in her voice. Buck found himself, once or +twice, fairly caught in a little whirlpool of ill temper of his own +making. These conditions they discovered almost simultaneously. And +like the comrades they were, they talked it over and came to a sensible +understanding. +</P> + +<P> +"We're a bit ragged and saw-edged," said Emma. "We're getting on each +other's nerves. What we need is a vacation from each other. This +morning I found myself on the verge of snapping at you. At you! +Imagine, T. A.!" +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon Buck came forward with his confession. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a couple of late cases of spring fever. You've been tied to this +office all winter. So've I. We need a change. You've had too much +petticoats, too much husband, too much cutting room and sales-room and +rush orders and business generally. Too much Featherloom and not +enough foolishness." He came over and put a gentle hand on his wife's +shoulder, a thing strictly against the rules during business hours. +And Emma not only permitted it but reached over and covered his hand +with her own. "You're tired, and you're a wee bit nervous; so g'wan," +said T. A., ever so gently, and kissed his wife, "g'wan; get out of +here!" +</P> + +<P> +And Emma got. +</P> + +<P> +She went, not to the mountains or the seashore but with her face to the +west. In her trunks were tiny garments—garments pink-ribboned, +blue-ribboned, things embroidered and scalloped and hemstitched and +hand-made and lacy. She went looking less grandmotherly than ever in +her smart, blue tailor suit, her rakish hat, her quietly correct +gloves, and slim shoes and softly becoming jabot. Her husband had got +her a compartment, had laden her down with books, magazines, fruit, +flowers, candy. Five minutes before the train pulled out, Emma looked +about the little room and sighed, even while she smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"You're an extravagant boy, T. A. I look as if I were equipped for a +dash to the pole instead of an eighteen-hour run to Chicago. But I +love you for it. I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess how I like +having a whole compartment just for myself. You see, a compartment +always will spell luxury to me. There were all those years on the +road, you know, when I often considered myself in luck to get an upper +on a local of a branch line that threw you around in your berth like a +bean in a tin can every time the engineer stopped or started." +</P> + +<P> +Buck looked at his watch, then stooped in farewell. Quite suddenly +they did not want to part. They had grown curiously used to each +other, these two. Emma found herself clinging to this man with the +tender eyes, and Buck held her close, regardless of train-schedules. +Emma rushed him to the platform and watched him, wide-eyed, as he swung +off the slowly moving train. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on along!" she called, almost tearfully. +</P> + +<P> +Buck looked up at her. At her trim, erect figure, at her clear +youthful coloring, at the brightness of her eye. +</P> + +<P> +"If you want to get a reputation for comedy," he laughed, "tell +somebody on that train that you're going to visit your granddaughter." +</P> + +<P> +Jock met her at the station in Chicago and drove her home in a very +dapper and glittering black runabout. +</P> + +<P> +"Grace wanted to come down," he explained, as they sped along, "but +they're changing the baby's food or something, and she didn't want to +leave. You know those nurses." Emma felt a curious little pang. This +was her boy, her baby, talking about his baby and nurses. She had a +sense of unreality. He turned to her with shining eyes. "That's a +stunning get-up, Blonde. Honestly, you're a wiz, mother. Grace has told +all her friends that you're coming, and their mothers are going to +call. But, good Lord, you look like my younger sister, on the square +you do!" +</P> + +<P> +The apartment reached, it seemed to Emma that she floated across the +walk and up the stairs, so eagerly did her heart cry out for a glimpse +of this little being who was flesh of her flesh. Grace, a little pale +but more beautiful than ever, met them at the door. Her arms went +about Emma's neck. Then she stood her handsome mother-in-law off and +gazed at her. +</P> + +<P> +"You wonder! How lovely you look! Good heavens, are they wearing that +kind of hat in New York! And those collars! I haven't seen a thing +like 'em here. 'East is east and West is west and——'" +</P> + +<P> +"Where's that child?" demanded Emma McChesney Buck. "Where's my baby?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sh-sh-sh-sh!" came in a sibilant duet from Grace and Jock. "Not now. +She's sleeping. We were up with her for three hours last night. It +was the new food. She's not used to it yet." +</P> + +<P> +"But, you foolish children, can't I peek at her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, dear, no!" said Grace hastily. "We never go into her room when +she's asleep. This is your room, mother dear. And just as soon as she +wakes up—this is your bath—you'll want to freshen up. Dear me; who +could have hung the baby's little shirt here? The nurse, I suppose. +If I don't attend to every little thing——" +</P> + +<P> +Emma took off her hat and smoothed her hair with light, deft fingers. +She turned a smiling face toward Jock and Grace standing there in the +doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"Now don't bother, dear. If you knew how I love having that little +shirt to look at! And I've such things in my trunk! Wait till you see +them." +</P> + +<P> +So she possessed her soul in patience for one hour, two hours. At the +end of the second hour, a little wail went up. Grace vanished down the +hall. Emma, her heart beating very fast, followed her. A moment later +she was bending over a very pink morsel with very blue eyes and she was +saying, over and over in a rapture of delightful idiocy: +</P> + +<P> +"Say hello to your gran-muzzer, yes her is! Say, hello, granny!" And +her longing arms reached down to take up her namesake. +</P> + +<P> +"Not now!" Grace said hastily. "We never play with her just before +feeding-time. We find that it excites her, and that's bad for her +digestion." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear me!" marveled Emma. "I don't remember worrying about Jock's +digestion when he was two and a half months old!" +</P> + +<P> +It was thus that Emma McChesney Buck, for many years accustomed to +leadership, learned to follow humbly and in silence. She had always +been the orbit about which her world revolved. Years of brilliant +success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, or made her +offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a certain +self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of deference from +others. Now she was the humblest of the satellites revolving about +this sun of the household. She learned to tiptoe when small Emma +McChesney was sleeping. She learned that the modern mother does not +approve of the holding of a child in one's arms, no matter how those +arms might be aching to feel the frail weight of the soft, sweet body. +She who had brought a child into the world, who had had to train that +child alone, had raised him single-handed, had educated him, denied +herself for him, made a man of him, now found herself all ignorant of +twentieth century child-raising methods. She learned strange things +about barley-water and formulae and units and olive oil, and orange +juice and ounces and farina, and bath-thermometers and blue-and-white +striped nurses who view grandmothers with a coldly disapproving and +pitying eye. +</P> + +<P> +She watched the bathing-process for the first time with wonder as frank +as it was unfeigned. +</P> + +<P> +"And I thought I was a modern woman!" she marveled. "When I used to +bathe Jock I tested the temperature of the water with my elbow; and I +know my mother used to test my bath-water when I was a baby by putting +me into it. She used to say that if I turned blue she knew the water +was too cold, and if I turned red she knew it was too hot." +</P> + +<P> +"Humph!" snorted the blue-and-white striped nurse, and rightly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't say that your method isn't the proper one," Emma hastened +to say humbly, and watched Grace scrutinize the bath-thermometer with +critical eye. +</P> + +<P> +In the days that followed, there came calling the mothers of Grace's +young-women friends, as Jock had predicted. Charming elderly women, +most of them, all of them gracious and friendly with that generous +friendliness which is of the West. But each fell into one of two +classes—the placid, black-silk, rather vague woman of middle age, +whose face has the blank look of the sheltered woman and who wrinkles +early from sheer lack of sufficient activity or vital interest in life; +and the wiry, well-dressed, assertive type who talked about her club +work and her charities, her voice always taking the rising inflection +at the end of a sentence, as though addressing a meeting. When they +met Emma, it was always with a little startled look of surprise, +followed by something that bordered on disapproval. Emma, the keenly +observant, watching them, felt vaguely uncomfortable. She tried to be +politely interested in what they had to say, but she found her thoughts +straying a thousand miles away to the man whom she loved and who loved +her, to the big, busy factory with its humming machinery and its +capable office staff, to the tasteful, comfortable, spacious house that +she had helped to plan; to all the vital absorbing, fascinating and +constructive interests with which her busy New York life was filled to +overflowing. +</P> + +<P> +So she looked smilingly at the plump, gray-haired ladies who came +a-calling in their smart black with the softening lace-effect at the +throat, and they looked, smiling politely, too, at this slim, erect, +pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman with the shining golden hair and the +firm, smooth skin, and the alert manner; and in their eyes was that +distrust which lurks in the eyes of a woman as she looks at another +woman of her own age who doesn't show it. +</P> + +<P> +In the weeks of her stay, Emma managed, little by little, to take the +place of second mother in the household. She had tact and finesse and +cleverness enough even for that herculean feat. Grace's pale cheeks and +last year's wardrobe made her firm in her stand. +</P> + +<P> +"Grace," she said, one day, "listen to me: I want you to get some +clothes—a lot of them, and foolish ones, all of them. Babies are all +very well, but husbands have some slight right to consideration. The +clock, for you, is an instrument devised to cut up the day and night +into your baby's eating- and sleeping-periods. I want you to get some +floppy hats with roses on 'em, and dresses with ruffles and sashes. +I'll stay home and guard your child from vandals and ogres. Scat!" +</P> + +<P> +Her stay lengthened to four weeks, five weeks, six. She had the +satisfaction of seeing the roses blooming in Grace's cheeks as well as +in her hats. She learned to efface her own personality that others +might shine who had a better right. And she lost some of her own +bright color, a measure of her own buoyancy. In the sixth week she +saw, in her mirror, something that caused her to lean forward, to stare +for one intent moment, then to shrink back, wide-eyed. A little +sunburst, hair-fine but undeniable, was etched delicately about the +corners of her eyes. Fifteen minutes later, she had wired New York +thus: +</P> + +<PRE> + Home Friday. Do you still love me? EMMA.<BR> +</PRE> + +<BR> + +<P> +When she left, little Emma McChesney was sleeping, by a curious +coincidence, as she had been when Emma arrived, so that she could not +have the satisfaction of a last pressure of the lips against the +rose-petal cheek. She had to content herself with listening close to +the door in the vain hope of catching a last sound of the child's +breathing. +</P> + +<P> +She was laden with fruits and flowers and magazines on her departure, +as she had been when she left New York. But, somehow, these things did +not seem to interest her. After the train had left Chicago's smoky +buildings far behind, she sat very still for a long time, her eyes +shut. She told herself that she felt and looked very old, very tired, +very unlike the Emma McChesney Buck who had left New York a few weeks +before. Then she thought of T. A., and her eyes unclosed and she +smiled. By the time the train had reached Cleveland the little lines +seemed miraculously to have disappeared, somehow, from about her eyes. +When they left the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station she was +a creature transformed. And when the train rolled into the great +down-town shed, Emma was herself again, bright-eyed, alert, vibrating +energy. +</P> + +<P> +There was no searching, no hesitation. Her eyes met his, and his eyes +found hers with a quite natural magnetism. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, T. A., my dear, my dear! I didn't know you were so handsome! And +how beautiful New York is! Tell me: Have I grown old? Have I?" +</P> + +<P> +T. A. bundled her into a taxi and gazed at her in some alarm. +</P> + +<P> +"You! Old! What put that nonsense into your head? You're tired, +dear. We'll go home, and you'll have a good rest, and a quiet +evening——" +</P> + +<P> +"Rest!" echoed Emma, and sat up very straight, her cheeks pink. "Quiet +evening! T. A. Buck, listen to me. I've had nothing but rest and +quiet evenings for six weeks. I feel a million years old. One more +day of being a grandmother and I should have died! Do you know what I'm +going to do? I'm going to stop at Fifth Avenue this minute and buy a +hat that's a thousand times too young for me, and you're going with me +to tell me that it isn't. And then you'll take me somewhere to +dinner—a place with music and pink shades. And then I want to see a +wicked play, preferably with a runway through the center aisle for the +chorus. +</P> + +<P> +And then I want to go somewhere and dance! Get that, dear? Dance! +Tell me, T. A.—tell me the truth: Do you think I'm old, and faded, +and wistful and grandmotherly?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think," said T. A. Buck, "that you're the most beautiful, the most +wonderful, the most adorable woman in the world, and the more foolish +your new hat is and the later we dance the better I'll like it. It has +been awful without you, Emma." +</P> + +<P> +Emma closed her eyes and there came from the depths of her heart a +great sigh of relief, and comfort and gratification. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, T. A., my dear, it's all very well to drown your identity in the +music of the orchestra, but there's nothing equal to the soul-filling +satisfaction that you get in solo work." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Emma McChesney & Co., by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA MCCHESNEY & CO. *** + +***** This file should be named 453-h.htm or 453-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/453/ + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Emma McChesney & Co. + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Posting Date: August 30, 2008 [EBook #453] +Release Date: March, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA MCCHESNEY & CO. *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. + + +by + +Edna Ferber + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + + I. BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES + II. THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY + III. A CLOSER CORPORATION + IV. BLUE SERGE + V. "HOOPS, MY DEAR!" + VI. SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN + VII. AN ETUDE FOR EMMA + + + + + +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. + + + + +I + +BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES + +The door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY" was closed. T. A. Buck, president of +the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily down the hall, +stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a spicy bit of news at +his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before the first syllable is +voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy. Keep out." + +"She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly. Then he +turned the knob and entered his partner's office. + +Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she was +poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up in a +maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression that, +while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye was still on +the letter. + +"I knew it," said T. A. Buck morosely. + +Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled. + +"Sit down--now that you're in. And if you expect me to say, 'Knew +what?' you're doomed to disappointment." + +T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his walking +stick on which he leaned. + +"Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest scrawl +from your son. One would think Jock's letters were deathless +masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour intervals all week, +and on Sunday get 'em all out and play solitaire with them." + +Emma McChesney's smile widened frankly to a grin. + +"You make me feel like a cash-girl who's been caught flirting with the +elevator starter. Have I been neglecting business?" + +"Business? No; you've been neglecting me!" + +"Now, T. A., you've just come from the tailor's, and I suppose it +didn't fit in the back." + +"It isn't that," interrupted Buck, "and you know it. Look here! That +day Jock went away and we came back to the office, and you said----" + +"I know I said it, T. A., but don't remind me of it. That wasn't a +fair test. I had just seen Jock leave me to take his own place in the +world. You know that my day began and ended with him. He was my +reason for everything. When I saw him off for Chicago that day, and +knew he was going there to stay, it seemed a million miles from New +York. I was blue and lonely and heart-sick. If the office-boy had +thrown a kind word to me I'd have broken down and wept on his shoulder." + +Buck, still standing, looked down between narrowed lids at his business +partner. + +"Emma McChesney," he said steadily, "do you mean that?" + +Mrs. McChesney, the straightforward, looked up, looked down, fiddled +with the letter in her hand. + +"Well--practically yes--that is--I thought, now that you're going to +the mountains for a month, it might give me a chance to think--to----" + +"And d'you know what I'll do meanwhile, out of revenge on the sex? +I've just ordered three suits of white flannel, and I shall break every +feminine heart in the camp, regardless-- Oh, say, that's what I came in +to tell you! Guess whom I saw at the tailor's?" + +"Well, Mr. Bones, whom did you, and so forth?" + +"Fat Ed Meyers. I just glimpsed him in one of the fitting-rooms. And +they were draping him in white." + +Emma McChesney sat up with a jerk. + +"Are you sure?" + +"Sure? There's only one figure like that. He had the thing on and was +surveying himself in the mirror--or as much of himself as could be seen +in one ordinary mirror. In that white suit, with his red face above +it, he looked like those pictures you see labeled, 'Sunrise on +Snow-covered Mountain.'" + +"Did he see----" + +"He dodged when he saw me. Actually! At least, he seems to have the +decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he left us flat in +the thick of his Middle Western trip and went back to the Sans-Silk +Skirt Company. I wanted him to know I had seen him. As I passed, I +said, 'You'll mow 'em down in those clothes, Meyers.'" Buck sat down +in his leisurely fashion, and laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't +you see him, Emma, at the seashore?" + +But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set, +unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was +staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him. There +was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of complete +detachment, which always enveloped her when her lightning mind was +leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the slower thinking. + +"What's your tailor's name?" + +"Name? Trotter. Why?" + +Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish. + +"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double-t-e-r. Say I want to speak +to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company." + +T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what in the +name of----" + +"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one of my +hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through the same +territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk Skirt people. +It didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed hadn't the decency to +be ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter how raw. And let me tell +you, T. A.: If he dodged when he saw you it wasn't because he was +ashamed of having played us low-down. He was contemplating playing +lower-down. Of course, I may be----" + +She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, her +calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones: + +"Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure that +the grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. What? Oh, +you say you assured him it was the weight of flannel you always advise +for South America. And you said they'd be ready when? Next week? +Thank you." + +She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Her +cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood up, her +breath coming rather quickly. + +"Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down to South +America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been planning to do +for the last six months. You remember I spoke of it. You pooh-poohed +the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Sans-Silk +people if they get it. But they won't get it." + +T. A. Buck stood up suddenly. + +"Look here, Emma! If you're----" + +"I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has +been--well, you know what it's been for the last two years. The South +American boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes are promised +for next week. That means he isn't sailing until week after next. But +the next boat sails in three days." She picked up a piece of paper +from her desk and tossed it into Buck's hand. "That's the letter I was +reading when you came in. No; don't read it. Let me tell you instead." + +Buck threw cane, hat, gloves, and letter on the broad desk, thrust his +hands into his pockets, and prepared for argument. But he got only as +far as: "But I won't allow it! You couldn't get away in three days, +at any rate. And at the end of two weeks you'll have come to your +senses, and besides----" + +"T. A., I don't mean to be rude. But here are your hat and stick and +gloves. It's going to take me just forty-eight hours to mobilize." + +"But, Emma, even if you do get in ahead of Meyers, it's an insane idea. +A woman can't go down there alone. It isn't safe. It's bad enough for +a man to tackle it. Besides, we're holding our own." + +"That's just it. When a doctor issues a bulletin to the effect that +the patient is holding his own, you may have noticed that the relatives +always begin to gather." + +"It's a bubble, this South American idea. Oshkosh and Southport and +Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can keep that +trade, we ought to be thankful." + +Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one gesture +and patted it into place with another. Those two gestures, to one who +knew her, meant loss of composure for one instant, followed by the +quick regaining of it the next. + +"Let's not argue about it now. Suppose we wait until to-morrow--when +it's too late. I am thankful for the trade we've got. But I don't +want to be narrow about it. My thanking capacity is such that I can +stretch it out to cover some things we haven't got yet. I've been +reading up on South America." + +"Reading!" put in Buck hotly. "What actual first-hand information can +you get about a country from books?" + +"Well, then, I haven't only been reading. I've been talking to +everyone I could lay my hands on who has been down there and who knows. +Those South American women love dress--especially the Argentines. And +do you know what they've been wearing? Petticoats made in England! You +know what that means. An English woman chooses a petticoat like she +does a husband--for life. It isn't only a garment. It's a shelter. +It's built like a tent. If once I can introduce the T. A. Buck +Featherloom petticoat and knickerbocker into sunny South America, +they'll use those English and German petticoats for linoleum +floor-coverings. Heaven knows they'll fit the floor better than the +human form!" + +But Buck was unsmiling. The muscles of his jaw were tense. + +"I won't let you go. Understand that! I won't allow it!" + +"Tut, tut, T. A.! What is this? Cave-man stuff?" + +"Emma, I tell you it's dangerous. It isn't worth the risk, no matter +what it brings us." + +Emma McChesney struck an attitude, hand on heart. "'Heaven will +protect the working girrul,'" she sang. + +Buck grabbed his hat. + +"I'm going to wire Jock." + +"All right! That'll save me fifty cents. Do you know what he'll wire +back? 'Go to it. Get the tango on its native tairn'--or words to that +effect." + +"Emma, use a little logic and common sense!" + +There was a note in Buck's voice that brought a quick response from +Mrs. McChesney. She dropped her little air of gayety. The pain in his +voice, and the hurt in his eyes, and the pleading in his whole attitude +banished the smile from her face. It had not been much of a smile, +anyway. T. A. knew her genuine smiles well enough to recognize a +counterfeit at sight. And Emma McChesney knew that he knew. She came +over and laid a hand lightly on his arm. + +"T. A., I don't know anything about logic. It is a hot-house plant. +But common sense is a field flower, and I've gathered whole bunches of +it in my years of business experience. I'm not going down to South +America for a lark. I'm going because the time is ripe to go. I'm +going because the future of our business needs it. I'm going because +it's a job to be handled by the most experienced salesman on our staff. +And I'm just that. I say it because it's true. Your father, T. A., +used to see things straighter and farther than any business man I ever +knew. Since his death made me a partner in this firm, I find myself, +when I'm troubled or puzzled, trying to see a situation as he'd see it +if he were alive. It's like having an expert stand back of you in a +game of cards, showing you the next move. That's the way I'm playing +this hand. And I think we're going to take most of the tricks away +from Fat Ed Meyers." + +T. A. Buck's eyes traveled from Emma McChesney's earnest, glowing face +to the hand that rested on his arm. He reached over and gently covered +that hand with his own. + +"I suppose you must be right, little woman. You always are. Dad was +the founder of this business. It was the pride of his life. That +word 'founder' has two meanings. I never want to be responsible for +its second meaning in connection with this concern." + +"You never will be, T. A." + +"Not with you at the helm." He smiled rather sadly. "I'm a good, +ordinary, common seaman. But you've got imagination, and foresight, +and nerve, and daring, and that's the stuff that admirals are made of." + +"Bless you, T. A.! I knew you'd see the thing as I do after the first +shock was over. It has always been nip and tuck between the Sans-Silk +Company and us. You gave me the hint that showed me their plans. Now +help me follow it up." + +Buck picked up his hat, squared his shoulders and fumbled with his +gloves like a bashful schoolboy. + +"You--you couldn't kill two birds with one stone on this trip, could +you, Mrs. Mack?" + +Mrs. McChesney, back at her desk again, threw him an inquiring glance +over her shoulder. + +"You might make it a combination honeymoon and Featherloom expedition." + +"T. A. Buck!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. Then, as Buck dodged for the +door: "Just for that, I'm going to break this to you. You know that I +intended to handle the Middle Western territory for one trip, or until +we could get a man to take Fat Ed Meyers' place." + +"Well?" said Buck apprehensively. + +"I leave in three days. Goodness knows how long I'll be gone! A +business deal down there is a ceremony. And--you won't need any +white-flannel clothes in Rock Island, Illinois." + +Buck, aghast, faced her from the doorway. + +"You mean, I----" + +"Just that," smiled Emma McChesney pleasantly. And pressed the button +that summoned the stenographer. + +In the next forty-eight hours, Mrs. McChesney performed a series of +mental and physical calisthenics that would have landed an ordinary +woman in a sanatorium. She cleaned up with the thoroughness and +dispatch of a housewife who, before going to the seashore, forgets not +instructions to the iceman, the milkman, the janitor, and the maid. +She surveyed her territory, behind and before, as a general studies +troops and countryside before going into battle; she foresaw factory +emergencies, dictated office policies, made sure of staff organization +like the business woman she was. Out in the stock-room, under her +supervision, there was scientifically packed into sample-trunks and +cases a line of Featherloom skirts and knickers calculated to dazzle +Brazil and entrance Argentina. And into her own personal trunk there +went a wardrobe, each article of which was a garment with a purpose. +Emma McChesney knew the value of a smartly tailored suit in a business +argument. + +T. A. Buck canceled his order at the tailor's, made up his own line for +the Middle West, and prepared to storm that prosperous and important +territory for the first time in his business career. + +The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning +found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, last-minute +discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, took out a +leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to Buck. A tiny smile +quivered about her lips. Buck took it, mystified. + +"Your last diary?" + +"Something much more important. I call it 'The Salesman's Who's Who.' +Read it as you ought your Bible." + +"But what?" Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at a +paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly. + + +"Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt buyer. +Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her to dinner and +the theater." + + +He looked up, dazed. "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?" + +"Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll buy only +your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and expect you to +entertain her as you would your rich aunt." + +Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another +leaf--another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice: + + +"Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie." + + +He closed the book. "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to----" + +"Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, "and he +thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that business is a little +girl named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. Five years from now, if she +doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of those ten-thousand-a-year foreign +buyers. Play your samples up to Sammy, but quote your prices down to +Sadie. Read the next one, T. A." + +Buck read on, his tone lifeless: + + +"Miss Sharp. Berg Brothers, Omaha. Strictly business. Known among +the trade as the human cactus. Canceled a ten-thousand-dollar order +once because the grateful salesman called her 'girlie.' Stick to +skirts." + + +Buck slapped the book smartly against the palm of his hand. + +"Do you mean to tell me that you made this book out for me? Do you +mean to say that I have to cram on this like a kid studying for exams? +That I'll have to cater to the personality of the person I'm selling +to? Why--it's--it's----" + +Emma McChesney nodded calmly. + +"I don't know how this trip of yours is going to affect the firm's +business, T. A. But it's going to be a liberal education for you. +You'll find that you'll need that little book a good many times before +you're through. And while you're following its advice, do this: forget +that your name is Buck, except for business purposes; forget that your +family has always lived in a brownstone mausoleum in Seventy-second +street; forget that you like your chops done just so, and your wine at +such-and-such a temperature; get close to your trade. They're an +awfully human lot, those Middle Western buyers. Don't chuck them under +the chin, but smile on 'em. And you've got a lovely smile, T. A." + +Buck looked up from the little leather book. And, as he gazed at Emma +McChesney, the smile appeared and justified its praise. + +"I'll have this to comfort me, anyway, Emma. I'll know that while I'm +smirking on the sprightly Miss Sweeney, your face will be undergoing +various agonizing twists in the effort to make American prices +understood by an Argentine who can't speak anything but Spanish." + +"Maybe I am short on Spanish, but I'm long on Featherlooms. I may not +know a senora from a chili con carne, but I know Featherlooms from the +waistband to the hem." She leaned forward, dimpling like fourteen +instead of forty. "And you've noticed--haven't you, T. A.?--that I've +got an expressive countenance." + +Buck leaned forward, too. His smile was almost gone. + +"I've noticed a lot of things, Emma McChesney. And if you persist in +deviling me for one more minute, I'm going to mention a few." + +Emma McChesney surveyed her cleared desk, locked the top drawer with a +snap, and stood up. + +"If you do I'll miss my boat. Just time to make Brooklyn. Suppose you +write 'em." + +That Ed Meyers might know nothing of her sudden plans, she had kept the +trip secret. Besides Buck and the office staff, her son Jock was the +only one who knew. But she found her cabin stocked like a prima +donna's on a farewell tour. There were boxes of flowers, a package of +books, baskets of fruit, piles of magazines, even a neat little sheaf +of telegrams, one from the faithful bookkeeper, one from the workroom +foreman, two from salesmen long in the firm's employ, two from Jock in +Chicago. She read them, her face glowing. He and Buck had vied with +each other in supplying her with luxuries that would make pleasanter +the twenty-three days of her voyage. + +She looked about the snug cabin, her eyes suddenly misty. Buck poked +his head in at the door. + +"Come on up on deck, Emma; I've only a few minutes left." + +She snatched a pink rose from the box, and together they went on deck. + +"Just ten minutes," said Buck. He was looking down at her. "Remember, +Emma, nothing that concerns the firm's business, however big, is half +as important as the things that concern you personally, however small. +I realize what this trip will mean to us, if it pans, and if you can +beat Meyers to it. But if anything should happen to you, why----" + +"Nothing's going to happen, T. A., except that I'll probably come home +with my complexion ruined. I'll feel a great deal more at home talking +pidgin-English to Senor Alvarez in Buenos Aires than you will talking +Featherlooms to Miss Skirt-Buyer in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. But remember +this, T. A.: When you get to know--really to know--the Sadie Harrises +and the Sammy Blochs and the Ella Sweeneys of this world, you've +learned just about all there is to know about human beings. Quick--the +gangplank! Goodby, T. A." + +The dock reached, he gazed up at her as she leaned far over the +railing. He made a megaphone of his hands. + +"I feel like an old maid who's staying home with her knitting," he +called. + +The boat began to move. Emma McChesney passed a quick hand over her +eyes. + +"Don't drop any stitches, T. A." With unerring aim she flung the big +pink rose straight at him. + +She went about arranging her affairs on the boat like the business +woman that she was. First she made her cabin shipshape. She placed +nearest at hand the books on South America, and the Spanish-American +pocket interpreter. She located her deck chair, and her seat in the +dining-room. Then, quietly, unobtrusively, and guided by those years +spent in meeting men and women face to face in business, she took +thorough, conscientious mental stock of those others who were to be her +fellow travelers for twenty-three days. + +For the most part, the first-class passengers were men. There were +American business men--salesmen, some of them, promoters others, or +representatives of big syndicates shrewd, alert, well dressed, smooth +shaven. Emma McChesney knew that she would gain valuable information +from many of them before the trip was over. She sighed a little +regretfully as she thought of those smoking-room talks--those intimate, +tobacco-mellowed business talks from which she would be barred by her +sex. + +There were two engineers, one British, one American, both very +intelligent-looking, both inclined to taciturnity, as is often the case +in men of their profession. They walked a good deal, and smoked +nut-brown, evil-smelling pipes, and stared unblinkingly across the +water. + +There were Argentines--whole families of them--Brazilians, too. The +fat, bejeweled Brazilian men eyed Emma McChesney with open approval, +even talked to her, leering objectionably. Emma McChesney refused to +be annoyed. Her ten years on the road served her in good stead now. + +But most absorbing of all to Emma McChesney, watching quietly over her +book or magazine, was a tall, erect, white-bearded Argentine who, with +his family, occupied chairs near hers. His name had struck her with +the sound of familiarity when she read it on the passenger list. She +had asked the deck-steward to point out the name's owner. "Pages," she +repeated to herself, worriedly, "Pages? P----" Suddenly she knew. +Pages y Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop--a shop +finer than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom +instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there, +seething. + +That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she had +bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of the +Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of one of those +dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men whose likeness graces +the cover of a box of your favorite cigars. + +General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with a +revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like most of +the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora Pages, very fat, +very indolent, very blank, much given to pink satin and diamonds at +dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered, overfrizzed, marvelously +gowned, with overplumpness just a few years away, sat quietly by Senora +Pages' side, but her darting, flashing, restless eyes were never still. +The son (Emma heard them call him Pepe) was barely eighteen, she +thought, but quite a man of the world, with his cigarettes, his drinks, +his bold eyes. She looked at his sallow, pimpled skin, his lean, brown +hands, his lack-luster eyes, and she thought of Jock and was happy. + +Mrs. McChesney knew that she might visit the magnificent Buenos Aires +shop of Pages y Hernandez day after day for months without ever +obtaining a glimpse of either Pages or Hernandez. And here was Senor +Pages, so near that she could reach out and touch him from her deck +chair. Here was opportunity! A caller who had never been obliged to +knock twice at Emma McChesney's door. + +Her methods were so simple that she herself smiled at them. She donned +her choicest suit of white serge that she had been saving for shore +wear. Its skirt had been cut by the very newest trick. Its coat was +the kind to make you go home and get out your own white serge and gaze +at it with loathing. Senorita Pages' eyes leaped to that suit as iron +leaps to the magnet. Emma McChesney, passing her deck chair, detached +the eyes with a neat smile. Why hadn't she spent six months neglecting +Skirts for Spanish? she asked herself, groaning. As she approached her +own deck chair again she risked a bright, "Good morning." Her heart +bounded, stood still, bounded again, as from the lips of the assembled +Pages there issued a combined, courteous, perfectly good American, +"Good morning!" + +"You speak English!" Emma McChesney's tone expressed flattery and +surprise. + +Pages pere made answer. + +"Ah, yes, it is necessary. There are many English in Argentina." + +A sigh--a fluttering, tremulous sigh of perfect peace and +happiness--welled up from Emma McChesney's heart and escaped through +her smiling lips. + +By noon, Senorita Pages had tried on the fascinating coat and secured +the address of its builder. By afternoon, Emma McChesney was showing +the newest embroidery stitch to the slow but docile Senora Pages. Next +morning she was playing shuffleboard with the elegant, indolent Pepe, +and talking North American football and baseball to him. She had not +been Jock McChesney's mother all those years for nothing. She could +discuss sports with the best of them. Young Pages was avidly +interested. Outdoor sports had become the recent fashion among the +rich young Argentines. + +The problem of papa Pages was not so easy. Emma McChesney approached +her subject warily, skirting the bypaths of politics, war, climate, +customs--to business. Business! + +"But a lady as charming as you can understand nothing of business," +said Senor Pages. "Business is for your militant sisters." + +"But we American women do understand business. Many--many charming +American women are in business." + +Senor Pages turned his fine eyes upon her. She had talked most +interestingly, this pretty American woman. + +"Perhaps--but pardon me if I think not. A woman cannot be really +charming and also capable in business." + +Emma McChesney dimpled becomingly. + +"But I know a woman who is as--well, as charming as you say I am. +Still, she is known as a capable, successful business woman. She'll +be in Buenos Aires when I am." + +Senor Pages shook an unbelieving head. Emma McChesney leaned forward. + +"Will you let me bring her in to meet you, just to prove my point?" + +"She must be as charming as you are." His Argentine betting +proclivities rose. "Here; we shall make a wager!" He took a card from +his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it to Emma McChesney. "You will +please present that to my secretary, who will conduct you immediately +to my office. We will pretend it is a friendly call. Your friend need +not know. If I lose----" + +"If you lose, you must promise to let her show you her sample line." + +"But, dear madam, I do no buying." + +"Then you must introduce her favorably to the department buyer of her +sort of goods." + +"But if I win?" persisted Senor Pages. + +"If she isn't as charming as--as you say I am, you may make your own +terms." + +Senor Pages' fine eyes opened wide. + +It was on the fourteenth day of their trip that they came into quaint +Bahia. The stay there was short. Brazilian business methods are +long. Emma McChesney took no chances with sample-trunks or cases. She +packed her three leading samples into her own personal suitcase, eluded +the other tourists, secured an interpreter, and prepared to brave +Bahia. She returned just in time to catch the boat, flushed, tired, +and orderless. Bahia would have none of her. + +In three days they would reach Rio de Janeiro, the magnificent. They +would have three days there. She told herself that Bahia didn't count, +anyway--sleepy little half-breed town! But the arrow rankled. It had +been the first to penetrate the armor of her business success. But she +had learned things from that experience at Bahia. She had learned that +the South American dislikes the North American because his Northern +cousin patronizes him. She learned that the North American business +firm is thought by the Southern business man to be tricky and +dishonest, and that, because the Northerner has not learned how to pack +a case of goods scientifically, as have the English, Germans, and +French, the South American rages to pay cubic-feet rates on boxes that +are three-quarters empty. + +So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced Rio de +Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset splashing the bay +and the hills in the foreground and the Sugar-loaf Mountain with an +unbelievable riot of crimson and gold and orange and blue. Suddenly +the sun jerked down, as though pulled by a string, and the magic purple +night came up as though pulled by another. + +"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney thankfully. + +Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart heavy, +her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. Three days in +Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, quick-thinking, +quick-acting North American business head up against the stone wall of +South American leisureliness and prejudice. She meant no irreverence, +no impiety as she prayed, meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into +her personal bag: + +"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help me to +land Rio and Buenos Aires!" + +Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a prayer in +her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, she made her way +to the dock, through the customs, into a cab that was to take her to +her arena, the broad Avenida. + +Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a +well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was +running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get there. +She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of modishly crippling +skirt, past officers, past customs officials, into the section where +stood the one small sample-trunk that she had ordered down in case of +emergency. The trunk had not gone through the customs. It had not +even been opened. But Emma McChesney heeded not trifles like that. +Rio de Janeiro had fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos. +79, 65, and 48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before +seen in Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a +hungry lion. Rio wanted more! + +Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her key, +unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted from the +trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers choosing unerringly, +when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, "It is forbidden!" + +Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the +depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word, "PROHIBA!" + +"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking. + +"INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a superhuman effort, +as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden with Featherloom samples of +rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!" + +Mrs. McChesney slammed down the trunk top, locked it, clutched her +samples firmly, and faced the enraged official. + +"Go 'way! I haven't time to be arrested this morning. This is my busy +day. Call around this evening." + +Whereupon she fled to her waiting cab, leaving behind her a Brazilian +official stunned and raging by turns. + +When she returned, happy, triumphant, order-laden, he was standing +there, stunned no longer but raging still. Emma McChesney had +forgotten all about him. The gold-braided official advanced, +mustachios bristling. A volley of Portuguese burst from his long-pent +lips. Emma McChesney glanced behind her. Her interpreter threw up +helpless hands, replying with a still more terrifying burst of vowels. +Bewildered, a little frightened, Mrs. McChesney stood helplessly by. +The official laid a none too gentle hand on her shoulder. A little +group of lesser officials stood, comic-opera fashion, in the +background. And then Emma McChesney's New York training came to her +aid. She ignored the voluble interpreter. She remained coolly +unruffled by the fusillade of Portuguese. Quietly she opened her hand +bag and plunged her fingers deep, deep therein. Her blue eyes gazed +confidingly up into the Brazilian's snapping black ones, and as she +withdrew her hand from the depths of her purse, there passed from her +white fingers to his brown ones that which is the Esperanto of the +nations, the universal language understood from Broadway to Brazil. +The hand on her shoulder relaxed and fell away. + +On deck once more, she encountered the suave Senor Pages. He stood at +the rail surveying Rio's shores with that lip-curling contempt of the +Argentine for everything Brazilian. He regarded Emma McChesney's +radiant face. + +"You are pleased with this--this Indian Rio?" + +Mrs. McChesney paused to gaze with him at the receding shores. + +"Like it! I'm afraid I haven't seen it. From here it looks like +Coney. But it buys like Seattle. Like it! Well, I should say I do!" + +"Ah, senora," exclaimed Pages, distressed, "wait! In six days you will +behold Buenos Aires. Your New York, Londres, Paris--bah! You shall +drive with my wife and daughter through Palermo. You shall see jewels, +motors, toilettes as never before. And you will visit my +establishment?" He raised an emphatic forefinger. "But surely!" + +Emma McChesney regarded him solemnly. + +"I promise to do that. You may rely on me." + +Six days later they swept up the muddy and majestic Plata, whose color +should have won it the name of River of Gold instead of River of +Silver. From the boat's upper deck, Emma McChesney beheld a sky line +which was so like the sky line of her own New York that it gave her a +shock. She was due for still another shock when, an hour later, she +found herself in a maelstrom of motors, cabs, street cars, newsboys, +skyscrapers, pedestrians, policemen, subway stations. Where was the +South American languor? Where the Argentine inertia? The rush and +roar of it, the bustle and the bang of it made the twenty-three-day +voyage seem a myth. + +"I'm going to shut my eyes," she told herself, "and then open them +quickly. If that little brown traffic-policeman turns out to be a big, +red-faced traffic-policeman, then I'm right, and this IS Broadway and +Forty-second." + +Shock number three came upon her entrance at the Grande Hotel. It had +been Emma McChesney's boast that her ten years on the road had +familiarized her with every type, grade, style, shape, cut, and mold of +hotel clerk. She knew him from the Knickerbocker to the Eagle House at +Waterloo, Iowa. At the moment she entered the Grande Hotel, she knew +she had overlooked one. Accustomed though she was to the sartorial +splendors of the man behind the desk, she might easily have mistaken +this one for the president of the republic. In his glittering uniform, +he looked a pass between the supreme chancellor of the K.P.'s in full +regalia and a prince of India during the Durbar. He was regal. He was +overwhelming. He would have made the most splendid specimen of North +American hotel clerk look like a scullery boy. Mrs. McChesney spent +two whole days in Buenos Aires before she discovered that she could +paralyze this personage with a peso. A peso is forty-three cents. + +Her experience at Bahia and at Rio de Janeiro had taught her things. +So for two days, haunted, as she was, by visions of Fat Ed Meyers +coming up close behind her, she possessed her soul in patience and +waited. On the great firm of Pages y Hernandez rested the success of +this expedition. When she thought of her little trick on Senor Pages, +her blithe spirits sank. Suppose, after all, that this powerful South +American should resent her little Yankee joke! + +Her trunks went through the customs. She secured an interpreter. She +arranged her samples with loving care. Style, cut, workmanship--she +ran over their strong points in her mind. She looked at them as a +mother's eyes rest fondly on the shining faces, the well-brushed hair, +the clean pinafores of her brood. And her heart swelled with pride. +They lay on their tables, the artful knickerbockers, the gleaming +petticoats, the pink and blue pajamas, the bifurcated skirts. Emma +McChesney ran one hand lightly over the navy blue satin folds of a +sample. + +"Pages or no Pages, you're a credit to your mother," she said, +whimsically. + +Up in her room once more, she selected her smartest tailor costume, her +most modish hat, the freshest of gloves and blouses. + +She chose the hours between four and six, when wheel traffic was +suspended in the Calle Florida and throughout the shopping-district, +the narrow streets of which are congested to the point of suffocation +at other times. + +As she swung down the street they turned to gaze after her--these +Argentines. The fat senoras turned, and the smartly costumed, sallow +senoritas, and the men--all of them. They spoke to her, these last, +but she had expected that, and marched on with her free, swinging +stride, her chin high, her color very bright. Into the great shop of +Pages y Hernandez at last, up to the private offices, her breath coming +a little quickly, into the presence of the shiny secretary--shiny +teeth, shiny hair, shiny skin, shiny nails. He gazed upon Emma +McChesney, the shine gleaming brighter. He took in his slim, brown +fingers the card on which Senor Pages had scribbled that day on board +ship. The shine became dazzling. He bowed low and backed his way into +the office of Senor Pages. + +A successful man is most impressive when in those surroundings which +have been built up by his success. On shipboard, Senor Pages had been +a genial, charming, distinguished fellow passenger. In his luxurious +business office he still was genial, charming, but his environment +seemed to lend him a certain austerity. + +"Senora McChesney!" + +("How awful that sounds!" Emma McChesney told herself.) + +"We spoke of you but last night. And now you come to win the wager, +yes?" He smiled, but shook his head. + +"Yes," replied Emma McChesney. And tried to smile, too. + +Senor Pages waved a hand toward the outer office. + +"She is with you, this business friend who is also so charming?" + +"Oh, yes," said Emma McChesney, "she's--she's with me." Then, as he +made a motion toward the push-button, which would summon the secretary: +"No, don't do that! Wait a minute!" From her bag she drew her business +card, presented it. "Read that first." + +Senor Pages read it. He looked up. Then he read it again. He gazed +again at Emma McChesney. Emma McChesney looked straight at him and +tried in vain to remember ever having heard of the South American's +sense of humor. A moment passed. Her heart sank. Then Senor Pages +threw back his fine head and laughed--laughed as the Latin laughs, +emphasizing his mirth with many ejaculations and gestures. + +"Ah, you Northerners! You are too quick for us. Come; I myself must +see this garment which you honor by selling." His glance rested +approvingly on Emma McChesney's trim, smart figure. "That which you +sell, it must be quite right." + +"I not only sell it," said Emma McChesney; "I wear it." + +"That--how is it you Northerners say?--ah, yes--that settles it!" + +Six weeks later, in his hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, T. A. Buck sat +reading a letter forwarded from New York and postmarked Argentina. As +he read he chuckled, grew serious, chuckled again and allowed his cigar +to grow cold. + +For the seventh time: + +DEAR T. A.: + +They've fallen for Featherlooms the way an Eskimo takes to gum-drops. +My letter of credit is all shot to pieces, but it was worth it. They +make you pay a separate license fee in each province, and South America +is just one darn province after another. If they'd lump a peddler's +license for $5,000 and tell you to go ahead, it would be cheaper. + +I landed Pages y Hernandez by a trick. The best of it is the man I +played it on saw the point and laughed with me. We North Americans +brag too much about our sense of humor. + +I thought ten years on the road had hardened me to the most fiendish +efforts of a hotel chef. But the food at the Grande here makes a +quarter-inch round steak with German fried look like Sherry's latest +triumph. You know I'm not fussy. I'm the kind of woman who, given her +choice of ice cream or cheese for dessert, will take cheese. Here, +given my choice, I play safe and take neither. I've reached the point +where I make a meal of radishes. They kill their beef in the morning +and serve it for lunch. It looks and tastes like an Ethiop's ear. But +I don't care, because I'm getting gorgeously thin. + +If the radishes hold out I'll invade Central America and Panama. I've +one eye on Valparaiso already. I know it sounds wild, but it means a +future and a fortune for Featherlooms. I find I don't even have to +talk skirts. They're self-sellers. But I have to talk honesty and +packing. + +How did you hit it off with Ella Sweeney? Haven't seen a sign of Fat +Ed Meyers. I'm getting nervous. Do you think he may have exploded at +the equator? + + EMMA. + + +But kind fortune saw fit to add a last sweet drop to Emma McChesney's +already brimming cup. As she reached the docks on the day of her +departure, clad in cool, crisp white from hat to shoes, her quick eye +spied a red-faced, rotund, familiar figure disembarking from the New +York boat, just arrived. The fates, grinning, had planned this moment +like a stage-manager. Fat Ed Meyers came heavily down the gangplank. +His hat was off. He was mopping the top of his head with a large, damp +handkerchief. His gaze swept over the busy landing-docks, darted +hither and thither, alighted on Emma McChesney with a shock, and rested +there. A distinct little shock went through that lady, too. But she +waited at the foot of her boat's gangway until the unbelievably nimble +Meyers reached her. + +He was a fiery spectacle. His cheeks were distended, his eyes +protuberant. He wasted no words. They understood each other, those +two. + +"Coming or going?" + +"Going," replied Emma McChesney. + +"Clean up this--this Bonez Areez, too?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Did, huh?" + +Meyers stood a moment panting, his little eyes glaring into her calm +ones. + +"Well, I beat you in Bahia, anyway." he boasted. + +Emma McChesney snapped her fingers blithely. + +"Bah, for Bahia!" She took a step or two up the gangplank, and turned. +"Good-by, Ed. And good luck. I can recommend the radishes, but pass +up the beef. Dangerous." + +Fat Ed Meyers, still staring, began to stutter unintelligibly, his lips +moving while no words came. Emma McChesney held up a warning hand. + +"Don't do that, Ed! Not in this climate! A man of your build, too! +I'm surprised. Consider the feelings of your firm!" + +Fat Ed Meyers glared up at the white-clad, smiling, gracious figure. +His hands unclenched. The words came. + +"Oh, if only you were a man for just ten minutes!" he moaned. + + + +II + +THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY + +It was Fat Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, who first said +that Mrs. Emma McChesney was the Maude Adams of the business world. It +was on the occasion of his being called to the carpet for his failure +to make Sans-silks as popular as Emma McChesney's famed Featherlooms. +He spoke in self-defense, heatedly. + +"It isn't Featherlooms. It's McChesney. Her line is no better than +ours. It's her personality, not her petticoats. She's got a following +that swears by her. If Maude Adams was to open on Broadway in 'East +Lynne,' they'd flock to see her, wouldn't they? Well, Emma McChesney +could sell hoop-skirts, I'm telling you. She could sell bustles. She +could sell red-woolen mittens on Fifth Avenue!" + +The title stuck. + +It was late in September when Mrs. McChesney, sunburned, decidedly +under weight, but gloriously triumphant, returned from a four months' +tour of South America. Against the earnest protests of her business +partner, T. A. Buck, president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, she had invaded the southern continent and left it abloom with +Featherlooms from the Plata to the Canal. + +Success was no stranger to Mrs. McChesney. This last business victory +had not turned her head. But it had come perilously near to tilting +that extraordinarily well-balanced part. A certain light in her eyes, +a certain set of her chin, an added briskness of bearing, a cocky slant +of the eyebrow revealed the fact that, though Mrs. McChesney's feet +were still on the ground, she might be said to be standing on tiptoe. + +When she had sailed from Brooklyn pier that June afternoon, four months +before, she had cast her ordinary load of business responsibilities on +the unaccustomed shoulders of T. A. Buck. That elegant person, although +president of the company which his father had founded, had never been +its real head. When trouble threatened in the workroom, it was to Mrs. +McChesney that the forewoman came. When an irascible customer in +Green Bay, Wisconsin, waxed impatient over the delayed shipment of a +Featherloom order, it was to Emma McChesney that his typewritten +protest was addressed. When the office machinery needed mental oiling, +when a new hand demanded to be put on silk-work instead of mercerized, +when a consignment of skirt-material turned out to be more than usually +metallic, it was in Mrs. Emma McChesney's little private office that +the tangle was unsnarled. + +She walked into that little office, now, at nine o'clock of a brilliant +September morning. It was a reassuring room, bright, orderly, +workmanlike, reflecting the personality of its owner. She stood in the +center of it now and looked about her, eyes glowing, lips parted. She +raised her hands high above her head, then brought them down to her +sides again with an unconsciously dramatic gesture that expressed +triumph, peace, content, relief, accomplishment, and a great and deep +satisfaction. T. A. Buck, in the doorway, saw the gesture--and +understood. + +"Not so bad to get back to it, is it?" + +"Bad! It's like a drink of cool spring water after too much champagne. +In those miserable South American hotels, how I used to long for the +orderliness and quiet of this!" + +She took off hat and coat. In a vase on the desk, a cluster of yellow +chrysanthemums shook their shaggy heads in welcome. Emma McChesney's +quick eye jumped to them, then to Buck, who had come in and was +surveying the scene appreciatively. + +"You--of course." She indicated the flowers with a nod and a radiant +smile. + +"Sorry--no. The office staff did that. There's a card of welcome, I +believe." + +"Oh," said Emma McChesney. The smile was still there, but the radiance +was gone. + +She seated herself at her desk. Buck took the chair near by. She +unlocked a drawer, opened it, rummaged, closed it again, unlocked +another. She patted the flat top of her desk with loving fingers. + +"I can't help it," she said, with a little shamed laugh; "I'm so glad +to be back. I'll probably hug the forewoman and bite a piece out of +the first Featherloom I lay hands on. I had to use all my self-control +to keep from kissing Jake, the elevator-man, coming up." + +Out of the corner of her eye, Emma McChesney had been glancing at her +handsome business partner. She had found herself doing the same thing +from the time he had met her at the dock late in the afternoon of the +day before. Those four months had wrought some subtle change. But +what? Where? She frowned a moment in thought. + +Then: + +"Is that a new suit, T. A.?" + +"This? Lord, no! Last summer's. Put it on because of this July +hangover in September. Why?" + +"Oh, I don't know"--vaguely--"I just--wondered." + +There was nothing vague about T. A. Buck, however. His old air of +leisureliness was gone. His very attitude as he sat there, erect, +brisk, confident, was in direct contrast to his old, graceful indolence. + +"I'd like to go over the home grounds with you this morning," he said. +"Of course, in our talk last night, we didn't cover the South American +situation thoroughly. But your letters and the orders told the story. +You carried the thing through to success. It's marvelous! But we +stay-at-homes haven't been marking time during your absence." + +The puzzled frown still sat on Emma McChesney's brow. As though +thinking aloud, she said, + +"Have you grown thinner, or fatter or--something?" + +"Not an ounce. Weighed at the club yesterday." + +He leaned forward a little, his face suddenly very sober. + +"Emma, I want to tell you now that--that mother--she--I lost her just a +few weeks after you sailed." + +Emma McChesney gave a little cry. She came quickly over to him, and +one hand went to his shoulder as she stood looking down at him, her +face all sympathy and contrition and sorrow. + +"And you didn't write me! You didn't even tell me, last night!" + +"I didn't want to distress you. I knew you were having a hard-enough +pull down there without additional worries. It happened very suddenly +while I was out on the road. I got the wire in Peoria. She died very +suddenly and quite painlessly. Her companion, Miss Tate, was with her. +She had never been herself since Dad's death." + +"And you----" + +"I could only do what was to be done. Then I went back on the road. I +closed up the house, and now I've leased it. Of course it's big enough +for a regiment. But we stayed on because mother was used to it. I +sold some of the furniture, but stored the things she had loved. She +left some to you." + +"To me!" + +"You know she used to enjoy your visits so much, partly because of the +way in which you always talked of Dad. She left you some jewelry that +she was fond of, and that colossal old mahogany buffet that you used to +rave over whenever you came up. Heaven knows what you'll do with it! +It's a white elephant. If you add another story to it, you could rent +it out as an apartment." + +"Indeed I shall take it, and cherish it, and polish it up myself every +week--the beauty!" + +She came back to her chair. They sat a moment in silence. Then Emma +McChesney spoke musingly. + +"So that was it." Buck looked up. "I sensed something--different. I +didn't know. I couldn't explain it." + +Buck passed a quick hand over his eyes, shook himself, sat up, erect +and brisk again, and plunged, with a directness that was as startling +as it was new in him, into the details of Middle Western business. + +"Good!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. + +"It's all very well to know that Featherlooms are safe in South +America. But the important thing is to know how they're going in the +corn country." + +Buck stood up. + +"Suppose we transfer this talk to my office. All the papers are there, +all the correspondence--all the orders, everything. You can get the +whole situation in half an hour. What's the use of talking when +figures will tell you." + +He walked swiftly over to the door and stood there waiting. Emma +McChesney rose. The puzzled look was there again. + +"No, that wasn't it, after all," she said. + +"Eh?" said Buck. "Wasn't what?" + +"Nothing," replied Emma McChesney. + +"I'm wool-gathering this morning. I'm afraid it's going to take me a +day or two to get back into harness again." + +"If you'd rather wait, if you think you'll be more fit to-morrow or the +day after, we'll wait. There's no real hurry. I just thought----" + +But Mrs. McChesney led the way across the hall that separated her +office from her partner's. Halfway across, she stopped and surveyed +the big, bright, busy main office, with its clacking typewriters and +rustle and crackle of papers and its air of concentration. + +"Why, you've run up a partition there between Miss Casey's desk and the +workroom door, haven't you?" + +"Yes; it's much better that way." + +"Yes, of course. And--why, where are the boys' desks? Spalding's and +Hutchinson's, and--they're all gone!" She turned in amazement. + +"Break it to me! Aren't we using traveling men any more?" + +Buck laughed his low, pleasant laugh. + +"Oh, yes; but I thought their desks belonged somewhere else than in the +main office. They're now installed in the little room between the shop +and Healy's office. Close quarters, but better than having them out +here where they were inclined to neglect their reports in order to +shine in the eyes of that pretty new stenographer. There are one or +two other changes. I hope you'll approve of them." + +"I'm sure I shall," replied Emma McChesney, a little stiffly. + +In Buck's office, she settled back in her chair to watch him as he +arranged neat sheaves of papers for her inspection. Her eyes traveled +from his keen, eager face to the piles of paper and back again. + +"Tell me, did you hit it off with the Ella Sweeneys and the Sadie +Harrises of the great Middle West? Is business as bad as the howlers +say it is? You said something last night about a novelty bifurcated +skirt. Was that the new designer's idea? How have the early buyers +taken to it?" + +Buck crooked an elbow over his head in self-defense. + +"Stop it! You make me feel like Rheims cathedral. Don't bombard until +negotiations fail." + +He handed her the first sheaf of papers. But, before she began to +read: "I'll say this much. Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha--the +one you warned against as the human cactus--had me up for dinner. +Well, I know you don't, but it's true. Her father and I hit it off +just like that. He's a character, that old boy. Ever meet him? No? +And Miss Sharp told me something about herself that explains her +porcupine pose. That poor child was engaged to a chap who was killed +in the Spanish-American war, and she----" + +"Kate Sharp!" interrupted Emma McChesney. "Why, T. A. Buck, in all her +vinegary, narrow life, that girl has never had a beau, much less----" + +Buck's eyebrows came up slightly. + +"Emma McChesney, you haven't developed--er--claws, have you?" + +With a gasp, Emma McChesney plunged into the papers before her. For ten +minutes, the silence of the room was unbroken except for the crackling +of papers. Then Emma McChesney put down the first sheaf and looked up +at her business partner. + +"Is that a fair sample?" she demanded. + +"Very," answered T. A. Buck, and handed her another set. + +Another ten minutes of silence. Emma McChesney reached out a hand for +still another set of papers. The pink of repressed excitement was +tinting her cheeks. + +"They're--they're all like this?" + +"Practically, yes." + +Mrs. McChesney faced him, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast. + +"T. A. Buck," she slapped the papers before her smartly with the back +of her hand, "this means you've broken our record for Middle Western +sales!" + +"Yes," said T. A., quietly. "Dad would have enjoyed a morning like +this, wouldn't he?" + +Emma McChesney stood up. + +"Enjoyed it! He is enjoying it. Don't tell me that T. A., Senior, +just because he is no longer on earth, has failed to get the joy of +knowing that his son has realized his fondest dreams. Why, I can feel +him here in this room, I can see those bright brown eyes of his +twinkling behind his glasses. Not know it! Of course he knows it." + +Buck looked down at the desk, smiling curiously. + +"D'you know, I felt that way, too." + +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. It was not all mirth--that +laugh. Buck waited. + +"And to think that I--I kindly and patronizingly handed you a little +book full of tips on how to handle Western buyers, 'The Salesman's +Who's Who'--I, who used to think I was the witch of the West when it +came to selling! You, on your first selling-trip, have made me look +like--like a shoe-string peddler." + +Buck put out a hand suddenly. + +"Don't say that, Emma. I--somehow it takes away all the pleasure." + +"It's true. And now that I know, it explains a lot of things that I've +been puzzling about in the last twenty-four hours." + +"What kind of things?" + +"The way you look and act and think. The way you carry your head. The +way you sit in a chair. The very words you use, your gestures, your +intonations. They're different." + +T. A. Buck, busy with his cigar, laughed a little self-consciously. + +"Oh, nonsense!" he said. "You're imagining things." + +Which remark, while not a particularly happy one, certainly was not in +itself so unfortunate as to explain why Mrs. McChesney should have +turned rather suddenly and bolted into her own office across the hall +and closed the door behind her. + +T. A. Buck, quite cool and unruffled, viewed her sudden departure +quizzically. Then he took his cigar from his mouth and stood eying it +a moment with more attention, perhaps, than it deserved, in spite of +its fine aroma. When he put it back between his lips and sat down at +his desk once more he was smiling ever so slightly. + +Then began a new order of things in the offices of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company. Feet that once had turned quite as a +matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," now took the +direction of the door opposite--and that door bore the name of Buck. +Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence had put her partner to +the test. That acid test had washed away the accumulated dross of +years and revealed the precious metal beneath. T. A. Buck had proved +to be his father's son. + +If Mrs. McChesney noticed that the head office had miraculously moved +across the hall, if her sharp ears marked that the many feet that once +had paused at her door now stopped at the door opposite, if she +realized that instead of, "I'd like your opinion on this, Mrs. +McChesney," she often heard the new, "I'll ask Mr. Buck," she did not +show it by word or sign. + +The first of October found buyers still flocking into New York from +every State in the country. Shrewd men and women, these--bargain +hunters on a grand scale. Armed with the long spoon of business +knowledge, they came to skim the cream from factory and workroom +products set forth for their inspection. + +For years, it had been Emma McChesney's quiet boast that of those whose +business brought them to the offices and showrooms of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, the foremost insisted on dealing only +with her. She was proud of her following. She liked their loyalty. +Their preference for her was the subtlest compliment that was in their +power to pay. Ethel Morrissey, whose friendship dated back to the days +when Emma McChesney had sold Featherlooms through the Middle West, used +to say laughingly, her plump, comfortable shoulders shaking, "Emma, if +you ever give me away by telling how many years I've been buying +Featherlooms of you, I'll--I'll call down upon you the spinster's +curse." + +Early Monday morning, Mrs. McChesney, coming down the hall from the +workroom, encountered Miss Ella Sweeney, of Klein & Company, Des +Moines, Iowa, stepping out of the elevator. A very skittish Miss +Sweeney, rustling, preening, conscious of her dangling black earrings +and her Robespierre collar and her beauty-patch. Emma McChesney met +this apparition with outstretched, welcoming hand. + +"Ella Sweeney! Well, I'd almost given you up. You're late this fall. +Come into my office." + +She led the way, not noticing that Miss Sweeney came reluctantly, her +eyes on the closed door across the way. + +"Sit down," said Emma McChesney, and pulled a chair nearer her desk. +"No; wait a minute! Let me look at you. Now, Ella, don't try to tell +me that THAT dress came from Des Moines, Iowa! Do I! Why, child, it's +distinctive!" + +Miss Sweeney, still standing, smiled a pleased but rather preoccupied +smile. Her eyes roved toward the door. + +Emma McChesney, radiating good will and energy, went on: + +"Wait till you see our new samples! You'll buy a million dollars' +worth. Just let me lead you to our new Walk-Easy bifurcated skirt. We +call it the 'one-stepper's delight.'" She put a hand on Ella Sweeney's +arm, preparatory to guiding her to the showrooms in the rear. But Miss +Sweeney's strange reluctance grew into resolve. A blush, as real as it +was unaccustomed, arose to her bepowdered cheeks. + +"Is--I--that is--Mr. Buck is in, I suppose?" + +"Mr. Buck? Oh, yes, he's in." + +Miss Sweeney's eyes sought the closed door across the hall. + +"Is that--his office?" + +Emma McChesney stiffened a little. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. +"You have guessed it," she said crisply. "Mr. Buck's name is on the +door, and you are looking at it." + +Miss Sweeney looked down, looked up, twiddled the chain about her neck. + +"You want to see Mr. Buck?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. + +Miss Sweeney simpered down at her glove-tips, fluttered her eyelids. + +"Well--yes--I--I--you see, I bought of him this year, and when you buy +of a person, why, naturally, you----" + +"Naturally; I understand." + +She walked across the hall, threw open the door, and met T. A. Buck's +glance coolly. + +"Mr. Buck, Miss Sweeney, of Des Moines, is here, and I'm sure you want +to see her. This way, Miss Sweeney." + +Miss Sweeney, sidling, blushing, fluttering, teetered in. Emma +McChesney, just before she closed the door, saw a little spasm cross +Buck's face. It was gone so quickly, and a radiant smile sat there so +reassuringly, that she wondered if she had not been mistaken, after +all. He had advanced, hand outstretched, with: + +"Miss Sweeney! It--it's wonderful to see you again! You're +looking----" + +The closed door stifled the rest. Emma McChesney, in her office across +the way, stood a moment in the center of the room, her hand covering +her eyes. The hardy chrysanthemums still glowed sunnily from their +vase. The little room was very quiet except for the ticking of the +smart, leather-encased clock on the desk. + +The closed door shut out factory and office sounds. And Emma McChesney +stood with one hand over her eyes. So Napoleon might have stood after +Waterloo. + +After this first lesson, Mrs. McChesney did not err again. When, two +days later, Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha, breezed in, looking +strangely juvenile and distinctly anticipatory, Emma greeted her +smilingly and waved her toward the door opposite. Miss Sharp, the +erstwhile bristling, was strangely smooth and sleek. She glanced ever +so softly, sighed ever so flutteringly. + +"Working side by side with him, seeing him day after day, how have you +been able to resist him?" + +Emma McChesney was only human, after all. + +"By remembering that this is a business house, not a matrimonial +parlor." + +The dart found no lodging place in Miss Sharp's sleek armor. She +seemed scarcely to have heard. + +"My dear," she whispered, "his eyes! And his manner! You must +be--whatchamaycallit--adamant. Is that the way you pronounce it? You +know what I mean." + +"Oh, yes," replied Emma McChesney evenly, "I--know what you mean." + +She told herself that she was justified in the righteous contempt which +she felt for this sort of thing. A heart-breaker! A cheap +lady-killer! Whereupon in walked Sam Bloom, of the Paris Emporium, +Duluth, one of Mrs. McChesney's stanchest admirers and a long-tried +business friend. + +The usual thing: "Younger than ever, Mrs. McChesney! You're a +wonder--yes, you are! How's business? Same here. Going to have lunch +with me to-day?" Then: "I'll just run in and see Buck. Say, where's +he been keeping himself all these years? Chip off the old block, that +boy." + +So he had the men, too! + +It was in this frame of mind that Miss Ethel Morrissey found her on the +morning that she came into New York on her semi-annual buying-trip. +Ethel Morrissey, plump, matronly-looking, quiet, with her hair fast +graying at the sides, had nothing of the skittish Middle Western buyer +about her. She might have passed for the mother of a brood of six if +it were not for her eyes--the shrewd, twinkling, far-sighted, reckoning +eyes of the business woman. She and Emma McChesney had been friends +from the day that Ethel Morrissey had bought her first cautious bill of +Featherlooms. Her love for Emma McChesney had much of the maternal in +it. She felt a personal pride in Emma McChesney's work, her success, +her clean reputation, her life of self-denial for her son Jock. When +Ethel Morrissey was planned by her Maker, she had not been meant to be +wasted on the skirt-and-suit department of a small-town store. That +broad, gracious breast had been planned as a resting-place for heads in +need of comfort. Those plump, firm arms were meant to enfold the weak +and distressed. Those capable hands should have smoothed troubled +heads and patted plump cheeks, instead of wasting their gifts in +folding piles of petticoats and deftly twitching a plait or a tuck into +place. She was playing Rosalind in buskins when she should have been +cast for the Nurse. + +She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit and +her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and rosy-cheeked +and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney thought, as she kissed +her, while the plump arms held her close. + +Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and eyed +her. + +"Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me. I want to +buy and get it over, so we can talk." + +"Are you sure that you want to buy of me?" asked Emma McChesney, a +little wearily. + +"What's the joke?" + +"I'm not joking. I thought that perhaps you might prefer to see Mr. +Buck this trip." + +Ethel Morrissey placed one forefinger under Emma McChesney's chin and +turned that lady's face toward her and gazed at her long and +thoughtfully--the most trying test of courage in the world, that, to +one whose eyes fear meeting yours. Emma McChesney, bravest of women, +tried to withstand it, and failed. The next instant her head lay on +Ethel Morrissey's broad breast, her hands were clutching the plump +shoulders, her cheek was being patted soothingly by the kind hands. + +"Now, now--what is it, dear? Tell Ethel. Yes; I do know, but tell me, +anyway. It'll do you good." + +And Emma McChesney told her. When she had finished: + +"You bathe your eyes, Emma, and put on your hat and we'll eat. Oh, yes, +you will. A cup of tea, anyway. Isn't there some little cool fool +place where I can be comfortable on a hot day like this--where we can +talk comfortably? I've got at least an hour's conversation in me." + +With the first sip of her first cup of tea, Ethel Morrissey began to +unload that burden of conversation. + +"Emma, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. Oh, yes, +it is. The queer thing about it is that it didn't happen sooner. It +was bound to come. You know, Emma, the Lord lets a woman climb just so +high up the mountain of success. And then, when she gets too cocky, +when she begins to measure her wits and brain and strength against that +of men, and finds herself superior, he just taps her smartly on the +head and shins, so that she stumbles, falls, and rolls down a few miles +on the road she has traveled so painfully. He does it just as a gentle +reminder to her that she's only a woman, after all. Oh, I know all +about this feminist talk. But this thing's been proven. Look at what +happened to--to Joan of Arc, and Becky Sharp, and Mary Queen of Scots, +and--yes, I have been spending my evenings reading. Now, stop laughing +at your old Ethel, Emma McChesney!" + +"You meant me to laugh, dear old thing. I don't feel much like it, +though. I don't see why I should be reminded of my lowly state. +Heaven knows I haven't been so terrifically pleased with myself! Of +course, that South American trip was--well, gratifying. But I earned +it. For ten years I lived with head in a sample-trunk, didn't I? I +worked hard enough to win the love of all these Westerners. It wasn't +all walking dreamily down Main Street, strewing Featherlooms along my +path." + +Ethel Morrissey stirred her second cup of tea, sipped, stirred, smiled, +then reached over and patted Emma McChesney's hand. + +"Emma, I'm a wise old party, and I can see that it isn't all pique with +you. It's something else--something deeper. Oh, yes, it is! Now let +me tell you what happened when T. A. Buck invaded your old-time +territory. I was busy up in my department the morning he came in. I +had my head in a rack of coats, and a henny customer waiting. But I +sensed something stirring, and I stuck my head out of the coat-rack in +which I was fumbling. The department was aflutter like a poultry-yard. +Every woman in it, from the little new Swede stock-girl to Gladys +Hemingway, who is only working to wear out her old clothes, was +standing with her face toward the elevator, and on her face a look that +would make the ordinary door-mat marked 'Welcome' seem like an insult. +I kind of smoothed my back hair, because I knew that only one thing +could bring that look into a woman's face. And down the aisle came a +tall, slim, distinguished-looking, wonderfully tailored, +chamois-gloved, walking-sticked Fifth Avenue person with EYES! Of +course, I knew. But the other girls didn't. They just sort of fell +back at his approach, smitten. He didn't even raise an eyebrow to do +it. Now, Emma, I'm not exaggerating. I know what effect he had on me +and my girls, and, for that matter, every other man or woman in the +store. Why, he was a dream realized to most of 'em. These shrewd, +clever buyer-girls know plenty of men--business men of the slap-bang, +horn-blowing, bluff, good-natured, hello-kid kind--the kind that takes +you out to dinner and blows cigar smoke in your face. Along comes this +chap, elegant, well dressed and not even conscious of it, polished, +suave, smooth, low-voiced, well bred. Why, when he spoke to a girl, it +was the subtlest kind of flattery. Can you see little Sadie Harris, of +Duluth, drawing a mental comparison between Sam Bloom, the +store-manager, and this fascinating devil--Sam, red-faced, loud voiced, +shirt-sleeving it around the sample room, his hat pushed 'way back on +his head, chewing his cigar like mad, and wild-eyed for fear he's +buying wrong? Why, child, in our town, nobody carries a cane except +the Elks when they have their annual parade, and old man Schwenkel, +who's lame. And yet we all accepted that yellow walking-stick of +Buck's. It belonged to him. There isn't a skirt-buyer in the Middle +West that doesn't dream of him all night and push Featherlooms in the +store all day. Emma, I'm old and fat and fifty, but when I had dinner +with him at the Manitoba House that evening, I caught myself making +eyes at him, knowing that every woman in the dining-room would have +given her front teeth to be where I was." + +After which extensive period, Ethel Morrissey helped herself to her +third cup of tea. Emma McChesney relaxed a little and laughed a +tremulous little laugh. + +"Oh, well, I suppose I must not hope to combat such formidable rivals +as walking-sticks, chamois gloves, and EYES. My business arguments are +futile compared to those." + +Ethel Morrissey delivered herself of a last shot. + +"You're wrong, Emma. Those things helped him, but they didn't sell his +line. He sold Featherlooms out of salesmanship, and because he sounded +convincing and sincere and businesslike--and he had the samples. It +wasn't all bunk. It was three-quarters business. Those two make an +invincible combination." + +An hour later, Ethel Morrissey was shrewdly selecting her winter line +of Featherlooms from the stock in the showrooms of the T. A. Buck +Company. They went about their business transaction, these two, with +the cool abruptness of men, speaking little, and then only of prices, +discounts, dating, shipping. Their luncheon conversation of an hour +before seemed an impossibility. + +"You'll have dinner with me to-night?" Emma asked. "Up at my +apartment, all cozy?" + +"Not to-night, dearie. I'll be in bed by eight. I'm not the girl I +used to be. Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now +it's a chore." + +She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. + +"If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like +company, why don't you ask--somebody else that's lonesome." + +After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden +good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow. + +Emma McChesney, her color high, entered her office. It was five +o'clock. She cleared her desk in half an hour, breathed a sigh of +weariness, reached for hat and jacket, donned them, and, turning out +her lights, closed her door behind her for the day. At that same +instant, T. A. Buck slammed his own door and walked briskly down the +hall. They met at the elevator. + +They descended in silence. The street gained, they paused uncertainly. + +"Won't you stay down and have dinner with me to-night, Emma?" + +"Thanks so much, T. A. Not to-night." + +"I'm--sorry." + +"Good night." + +"Good night." + +She turned away. He stood there, in the busy street, looking +irresolutely and not at all eagerly in the direction of his club, +perhaps, or his hotel, or whatever shelter he sought after business +hours. Something in his attitude--the loneliness of it, the +uncertainty, the indecision--smote Emma McChesney with a great pang. +She came swiftly back. + +"I wish you'd come home to dinner with me. I don't know what Annie'll +give us. Probably bread pudding. She does, when she's left to her own +devices. But I--I wish you would." She looked up at him almost shyly. + +T. A. Buck took Emma McChesney's arm in a rather unnecessarily firm +grip and propelled her, surprised and protesting, in the direction of +the nearest vacant taxi. + +"But, T. A.! This is idiotic! Why take a cab to go home from the +office on a--a week day?" + +"In with you! Besides, I never have a chance to take one from the +office on Sunday, do I? Does Annie always cook enough for two?" + +Apparently Annie did. Annie was something of a witch, in her way. She +whisked about, wrought certain changes, did things with asparagus and +mayonnaise, lighted the rose-shaded table-candles. No one noticed that +dinner was twenty minutes late. + +Together they admired the great mahogany buffet that Emma had +miraculously found space for in the little dining-room. + +"It glows like a great, deep ruby, doesn't it?" she said proudly. "You +should see Annie circle around it with the carpet-sweeper. She knows +one bump would be followed by instant death." + +Looking back on it, afterward, they remembered that the dinner was a +very silent one. They did not notice their wordlessness at the time. +Once, when the chops came on, Buck said absently, + +"Oh, I had those for l----" Then he stopped abruptly. + +Emma McChesney smiled. + +"Your mother trained you well," she said. + +The October night had grown cool. Annie had lighted a wood fire in the +living-room. + +"That was what attracted me to this apartment in the first place," Mrs. +McChesney said, as they left the dining-room. "A fireplace--a +practical, real, wood-burning fireplace in a New York apartment! I'd +have signed the lease if the plaster had been falling in chunks and the +bathtub had been zinc." + +"That's because fireplaces mean home--in our minds," said Buck. + +He sat looking into the heart of the glow. There fell another of those +comfortable silences. + +"T. A., I--I want to tell you that I know I've been acting the cat ever +since I got home from South America and found that you had taken +charge. You see, you had spoiled me. The thing that has happened to +me is the thing that always happens to those who assume to be +dictators. I just want you to know, now, that I'm glad and proud and +happy because you have come into your own. It hurt me just at first. +That was the pride of me. I'm quite over that now. You're not only +president of the T. A. Buck Company in name. You're its actual head. +And that's as it should be. Long live the King!" + +Buck sat silent a moment. Then, + +"I had to do it, Emma." She looked up. "You have a wonderful brain," +said Buck then, and the two utterances seemed connected in his mind. + +They seemed to bring no great satisfaction to the woman to whom he +addressed them, however. She thanked him dryly, as women do when their +brain is dragged into an intimate conversation. + +"But," said Buck, and suddenly stood up, looking at her very intently, +"it isn't for your mind that I love you this minute. I love you for +your eyes, Emma, and for your mouth--you have the tenderest, most +womanly-sweet mouth in the world--and for your hair, and the way your +chin curves. I love you for your throat-line, and for the way you walk +and talk and sit, for the way you look at me, and for the way you don't +look at me." + +He reached down and gathered Emma McChesney, the alert, the aggressive, +the capable, into his arms, quite as men gather the clingingest kind of +woman. "And now suppose you tell me just why and how you love me." + +And Emma McChesney told him. + +When, at last, he was leaving, + +"Don't you think," asked Emma McChesney, her hands on his shoulders, +"that you overdid the fascination thing just the least leetle bit there +on the road?" + +"Well, but you told me to entertain them, didn't you?" + +"Yes," reluctantly; "but I didn't tell you to consecrate your life to +'em. The ordinary fat, middle-aged, every-day traveling man will never +be able to sell Featherlooms in the Middle West again. They won't have +'em. They'll never be satisfied with anything less than John Drew +after this." + +"Emma McChesney, you're not marrying me because a lot of overdressed, +giggling, skittish old girls have taken a fancy to make eyes at me, are +you!" + +Emma McChesney stood up very straight and tall. + +"I'm marrying you, T. A., because you are a great, big, fine, +upstanding, tender, wonderful----" + +"Oh, well, then that's all right," broke in Buck, a little tremulously. + +Emma McChesney's face grew serious. + +"But promise me one thing, T. A. Promise me that when you come home +for dinner at night, you'll never say, 'Good heavens, I had that for +lunch!'" + + + +III + +A CLOSER CORPORATION + +Front offices resemble back kitchens in this: they have always an ear +at the keyhole, an eye at the crack, a nose in the air. But + +between the ordinary front office and the front office of the T. A. +Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company there was a difference. The +employees at Buck's--from Emil, the errand boy, to old Pop Henderson, +who had started as errand boy himself twenty-five years +before--possessed the quality of loyalty. They were loyal to the +memory of old man Buck, because they had loved and respected him. They +were loyal to Mrs. Emma McChesney, because she was Mrs. Emma McChesney +(which amounts to the same reason). They were loyal to T. A. Buck, +because he was his father's son. + +For three weeks the front office had been bewildered. From +bewilderment it passed to worry. A worried, bewildered front office is +not an efficient front office. Ever since Mrs. McChesney had come off +the road, at the death of old T. A. Buck, to assume the secretaryship +of the company which she had served faithfully for ten years, she had +set an example for the entire establishment. She was the pacemaker. +Every day of her life she figuratively pressed the electric button that +set the wheels to whirring. At nine A.M., sharp, she appeared, erect, +brisk, alert, vibrating energy. Usually, the office staff had not yet +swung into its gait. In a desultory way, it had been getting into its +sateen sleevelets, adjusting its eye-shades, uncovering its typewriter, +opening its ledgers, bringing out its files. Then, down the hall, would +come the sound of a firm, light, buoyant step. An electric thrill +would pass through the front office. Then the sunny, sincere, "Good +morning!" + +"'Morning, Mrs. McChesney!" the front office would chorus back. + +The day had begun for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. + +Hortense, the blond stenographer (engaged to the shipping-clerk), +noticed it first. The psychology of that is interesting. Hortense knew +that by nine-thirty Mrs. McChesney's desk would be clear and that the +buzzer would summon her. Hortense didn't mind taking dictation from T. +A. Buck, though his method was hesitating and jerky, and he was likely +to employ quite casually a baffling and unaccustomed word, over which +Hortense's scampering pencil would pause, struggle desperately, then +race on. Hortense often was in for a quick, furtive session with her +pocket-dictionary after one of T. A.'s periods. But with Mrs. +McChesney, dictation was a joy. She knew what she wanted to say and +she always said it. The words she used were short, clean-cut, +meaningful Anglo-Saxon words. She never used received when she could +use got. Hers was the rapid-fire-gun method, each word sharp, well +timed, efficient. + +Imagine, then, Hortense staring wide-eyed and puzzled at a floundering, +hesitating, absent-minded Mrs. McChesney--a Mrs. McChesney strangely +starry as to eyes, strangely dreamy as to mood, decidedly deficient as +to dictation. Imagine a Hortense with pencil poised in air a full five +minutes, waiting until Mrs. McChesney should come to herself with a +start, frown, smile vaguely, pass a hand over her eyes, and say, "Let +me see--where was I?" + +"'And we find, on referring to your order, that the goods you +mention----'" Hortense would prompt patiently. + +"Oh, yes, of course," with an effort. Hortense was beginning to grow +alarmed. + +In T. A. Buck's office, just across the hall, the change was quite as +noticeable, but in another way. His leisurely drawl was gone. His +deliberate manner was replaced by a brisk, quick-thinking, +quick-speaking one. His words were brief and to the point. He seemed +to be riding on the crest of an excitement-wave. And, as he dictated, +he smiled. + +Hortense stood it for a week. Then she unburdened herself to Miss +Kelly, the assistant bookkeeper. Miss Kelly evinced no surprise at her +disclosures. + +"I was just talking about it to Pop yesterday. She acts worried, +doesn't she? And yet, not exactly worried, either. Do you suppose it +can be that son of hers--what's his name? Jock." + +Hortense shook her head. + +"No; he's all right. She had a letter from him yesterday. He's got a +grand position in Chicago, and he's going to marry that girl he was so +stuck on here. And it isn't that, either, because Mrs. McChesney likes +her. I can tell by the way she talks about her. I ought to know. +Look how Henry's ma acted toward me when we were first engaged!" + +The front office buzzed with it. It crept into the workroom--into the +shipping-room. It penetrated the frowsy head of Jake, the +elevator-man. As the days went on and the tempo of the front office +slackened with that of the two bright little inner offices, only one +member of the whole staff remained unmoved, incurious, taciturn. Pop +Henderson listened, one scant old eyebrow raised knowingly, a whimsical +half-smile screwing up his wrinkled face. + +At the end of three weeks, Hortense, with that display of temperament +so often encountered in young ladies of her profession, announced in +desperation that, if this thing kept on, she was going to forget +herself and jeopardize her position by demanding to know outright what +the trouble was. + +From the direction of Pop Henderson's inky retreat, there came the +sound of a dry chuckle. Pop Henderson had been chuckling in just that +way for three weeks, now. It was getting on the nerves of his +colleagues. + +"If you ever spring the joke that's kept you giggling for a month," +snapped Hortense, "it'll break up the office." + +Pop Henderson removed his eye-shade very deliberately, passed his thin, +cramped old hand over his scant gray locks to his bald spot, climbed +down stiffly from his stool, ambled to the center of the room, and, +head cocked like a knowing old brown sparrow, regarded the pert +Hortense over his spectacles and under his spectacles and, finally, +through his spectacles. + +"Young folks now 'days," began Pop Henderson dryly, "are so darned cute +and knowin' that when an old fellow cuts in ahead of 'em for once, he +likes to hug the joke to himself a while before he springs it." There +was no acid in his tone. He was beaming very benignantly down upon the +little blond stenographer. "You say that Mrs. Mack is +absent-minded-like and dreamy, and that young T. A. acts like he'd +swallowed an electric battery. Well, when it comes to that, I've seen +you many a time, when you didn't know any one was lookin', just sitting +there at your typewriter, with your hands kind of poised halfway, and +your lips sort of parted, and your eyes just gazing away somewhere off +in the distance for fifteen minutes at a stretch. And out there in the +shipping-room Henry's singing like a whole minstrel troupe all day +long, when he isn't whistlin' so loud you can hear him over 's far as +Eighth Avenue." Then, as the red surged up through the girl's fair +skin, "Well?" drawled old Pop Henderson, and the dry chuckle threatened +again. "We-e-ell?" + +"Why, Pop Henderson!" exploded Miss Kelly from her cage. +"Why--Pop--Henderson!" + +In those six words the brisk and agile-minded Miss Kelly expressed the +surprise and the awed conviction of the office staff. + +Pop Henderson trotted over to the water-cooler, drew a brimming glass, +drank it off, and gave vent to a great exhaust of breath. He tried not +to strut as he crossed back to his desk, climbed his stool, adjusted +his eye-shade, and, with a last throaty chuckle, plunged into his books +again. + +But his words already were working their wonders. The office, after +the first shock, was flooded with a new atmosphere--a subtle, pervasive +air of hushed happiness, of tender solicitude. It went about like a +mother who has found her child asleep at play, and who steals away +atiptoe, finger on lip, lips smiling tenderly. + +The delicate antennae of Emma McChesney's mind sensed the change. + +Perhaps she read something in the glowing eyes of her sister-in-love, +Hortense. Perhaps she caught a new tone in Miss Kelly's voice or the +forewoman's. Perhaps a whisper from the outer office reached her desk. +The very afternoon of Pop Henderson's electrifying speech, Mrs. +McChesney crossed to T. A. Buck's office, shut the door after her, +lowered her voice discreetly, and said, + +"T. A., they're on." + +"What makes you think so?" + +"Nothing. That is, nothing definite. No man-reason. Just a +woman-reason." + +T. A. Buck strolled over to her, smiling. + +"I haven't known you all this time without having learned that that's +reason enough. And if they really do know, I'm glad." + +"But we didn't want them to know. Not yet--until--until just before +the----" + +T. A. Buck laid his hands lightly on Emma McChesney's shoulders. Emma +McChesney promptly reached up and removed them. + +"There you are!" exclaimed Buck, and rammed the offending hands into +his pockets. + +"That's why I'm glad they know--if they really do know. I'm no actor. +I'm a skirt-and-lingerie manufacturer. For the last six weeks, instead +of being allowed to look at you with the expression that a man +naturally wears when he's looking at the woman he's going to marry, +what have I had to do? Glare, that's what! Scowl! Act like a captain +of finance when I've felt like a Romeo! I've had to be dry, terse, +businesslike, when I was bursting with adjectives that had nothing to +do with business. You've avoided my office as you would a small-pox +camp. You've greeted me with a what-can-I-do-for-you air when I've +dared to invade yours. You couldn't have been less cordial to a book +agent. If it weren't for those two hours you grant me in the evening, +I'd--I'd blow up with a loud report, that's what. I'd----" + +"Now, now, T. A.!" interrupted Emma McChesney soothingly, and patted +one gesticulating arm. "It has been a bit of a strain--for both of us. +But, you know, we agreed it would be best this way. We've ten days +more to go. Let's stick it out as we've begun. It has been best for +us, for the office, for the business. The next time you find yourself +choked up with a stock of fancy adjectives, write a sonnet to me. Work +'em off that way." + +T. A. Buck stood silent a moment, regarding her with a concentration +that would have unnerved a woman less poised. + +"Emma McChesney, when you talk like that, so coolly, so evenly, so--so +darned mentally, I sometimes wonder if you really----" + +"Don't say it, T. A. Because you don't mean it. I've had to fight for +most of my happiness. I've never before found it ready at hand. I've +always had to dig for it with a shovel and a spade and a pickax, and +then blast. I had almost twenty years of that--from the time I was +eighteen until I was thirty-eight. It taught me to take my happiness +seriously and my troubles lightly." She shut her eyes for a moment, +and her voice was very low and very deep and very vibrant. "So, when +I'm coolest and evenest and most mental, T. A., you may know that I've +struck gold." + +A great glow illumined Buck's fine eyes. He took two quick steps in +her direction. But Emma McChesney, one hand on the door-knob, warned +him off with the other. + +"Hey--wait a minute!" pleaded Buck. + +"Can't. I've a fitting at the tailor's at three-thirty--my new suit. +Wait till you see it!" + +"The dickens you have! But so have I"--he jerked out his watch--"at +three-thirty! It's the suit I'm going to wear when I travel as a +blushing bridegroom." + +"So's mine. And look here, T. A.! We can't both leave this place for +a fitting. It's absurd. If this keeps on, it will break up the +business. We'll have to get married one at a time--or, at least, get +our trousseaux one at a time. What's your suit?" + +"Sort of brown." + +"Brown? So's mine! Good heavens, T. A., we'll look like a minstrel +troupe!" + + +Buck sighed resignedly. + +"If I telephone my tailor that I can't make it until four-thirty, will +you promise to be back by that time?" + +"Yes; but remember, if your bride appears in a skirt that sags in the +back or a coat that bunches across the shoulders, the crime will lie at +your door." + +So it was that the lynx-eyed office staff began to wonder if, after +all, Pop Henderson was the wizard that he had claimed to be. + +During working hours, Mrs. McChesney held rigidly to business. Her +handsome partner tried bravely to follow her example. If he failed +occasionally, perhaps Emma McChesney was not so displeased as she +pretended to be. A business discussion, deeply interesting to both, +was likely to run thus: + +Buck, entering her office briskly, papers in hand: "Mrs. +McChesney--ahem!--I have here a letter from Singer & French, Columbus, +Ohio. They ask for an extension. They've had ninety days." + +"That's enough. That firm's slow pay, and always will be until old +Singer has the good taste and common sense to retire. It isn't because +the stock doesn't move. Singer simply believes in not paying for +anything until he has to. If I were you, I'd write him that this is a +business house, not a charitable institution---- No, don't do that. It +isn't politic. But you know what I mean." + +"H'm; yes." A silence. "Emma, that's a fiendishly becoming gown." + +"Now, T. A.!" + +"But it is! It--it's so kind of loose, and yet clinging, and those +white collar-and-cuff things----" + +"T. A. Buck, I've worn this thing down to the office every day for a +month. It shines in the back. Besides, you promised not to----" + +"Oh, darn it all, Emma, I'm human, you know! How do you suppose I can +stand here and look at you and not----" + +Emma McChesney (pressing the buzzer that summons Hortense): "You know, +Tim, I don't exactly hate you this morning, either. But business is +business. Stop looking at me like that!" Then, to Hortense, in the +doorway: "Just take this letter, Miss Stotz-Singer & French, Columbus, +Ohio. Dear Sirs: Yours of the tenth at hand. Period. Regarding your +request for further extension we wish to say that, in view of the +fact----" + +T. A. Buck, half resentful, half amused, wholly admiring, would +disappear. But Hortense, eyes demurely cast down at her notebook, was +not deceived. + +"Say," she confided to Miss Kelly, "they think they've got me fooled. +But I'm wise. Don't I know? When Henry passes through the office +here, from the shipping-room, he looks at me just as cool and +indifferent. Before we announced it, we had you all guessing, didn't +we? But I can see something back of that look that the rest of you +can't get. Well, when Mr. Buck looks at her, I can see the same thing +in his eyes. Say, when it comes to seeing the love-light through the +fog, I'm there with the spy-glass." + +If Emma McChesney held herself well in leash during the busy day, she +relished her happiness none the less when she could allow herself the +full savor of it. When a girl of eighteen she had married a man of the +sort that must put whisky into his stomach before the machinery of his +day would take up its creaking round. + +Out of the degradation of that marriage she had emerged triumphantly, +sweet and unsullied, and she had succeeded in bringing her son, Jock +McChesney, out into the clear sunlight with her. + +The evenings spent with T. A. Buck, the man of fine instincts, of +breeding, of proven worth, of rare tenderness, filled her with a great +peace and happiness. When doubts assailed her, it was not for herself +but for him. Sometimes the fear would clutch her as they sat before +the fire in the sitting-room of her comfortable little apartment. She +would voice those fears for the very joy of having them stilled. + +"T. A., this is too much happiness. I'm--I'm afraid. After all, +you're a young man, though you are a bit older than I in actual years. +But men of your age marry girls of eighteen. You're handsome. And +you've brains, family, breeding, money. Any girl in New York would be +glad to marry you--those tall, slim, exquisite young girls. Young! +And well bred, and poised and fresh and sweet and lovable. You see +them every day on Fifth Avenue, exquisitely dressed, entirely +desirable. They make me feel--old--old and battered. I've sold goods +on the road. I've fought and worked and struggled. And it has left +its mark. I did it for the boy, God bless him! And I'm glad I did it. +But it put me out of the class of that girl you see on----" + +"Yes, Emma; you're not at all in the class with that girl you see every +day on Fifth Avenue. Fifth Avenue's full of her--hundreds of her, +thousands of her. Perhaps, five years ago, before I had worked side by +side with you, I might have been attracted by that girl you see every +day on Fifth Avenue. You don't see a procession of Emma McChesneys +every day on Fifth Avenue--not by a long shot! Why? Because there's +only one of her. She doesn't come in dozen lots. I know that that +girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue is all that I deserve. But, by +some heaven-sent miracle, I'm to have this Emma McChesney woman! I +don't know how it came to be true. I don't deserve it. But it is +true, and that's enough for me." + +Emma McChesney would look up at him, eyes wet, mouth smiling. + +"T. A., you're balm and myrrh and incense and meat and drink to me. I +wish I had words to tell you what I'm thinking now. But I haven't. So +I'll just cover it up. We both know it's there. And I'll tell you that +you make love like a 'movie' hero. Yes, you do! Better than a 'movie' +hero, because, in the films, the heroine always has to turn to face the +camera, which makes it necessary for him to make love down the back of +her neck." + +But T. A. Buck was unsmiling. + +"Don't trifle, Emma. And don't think you can fool me that way. I +haven't finished. I want to settle this Fifth Avenue creature for all +time. What I have to say is this: I think you are more +attractive--finer, bigger, more rounded in character and manner, +mellower, sweeter, sounder, with all your angles and corners rubbed +smooth, saner, better poised than any woman I have ever known. And +what I am to-day you have made me, directly and indirectly, by +association and by actual orders, by suggestion, and by direct contact. +What you did for Jock, purposefully and by force, you did for me, too. +Not so directly, perhaps, but with the same result. Emma McChesney, +you've made--actually made, molded, shaped, and turned out two men. +You're the greatest sculptor that ever lived. You could make a +scarecrow in a field get up and achieve. Everywhere one sees women +over-wrought, over-stimulated, eager, tense. When there appears one +who has herself in leash, balanced, tolerant, poised, sane, composed, +she restores your faith in things. You lean on her, spiritually. I +know I need you more than you need me, Emma. And I know you won't love +me the less for that. There--that's about all for this evening." + +"I think," breathed Emma McChesney in a choked little voice, "that +that's about--enough." + +Two days before the date set for their very quiet wedding, they told +the heads of office and workroom. Office and workroom, somewhat moist +as to eye and flushed as to cheek and highly congratulatory, proved +their knowingness by promptly presenting to their employers a very +costly and unbelievably hideous set of mantel ornaments and clock, +calculated to strike horror to the heart of any woman who has lovingly +planned the furnishing of her drawing-room. Pop Henderson, after some +preliminary wrestling with collar, necktie, spectacles, and voice, +launched forth on a presentation speech that threatened to close down +the works for the day. Emma McChesney heard it, tears in her eyes. T. +A. Buck gnawed his mustache. And when Pop Henderson's cracked old +voice broke altogether in the passage that touched on his departed +employer, old T. A. Buck, and the great happiness that this occasion +would have brought him, Emma's hand met young T. A.'s and rested there. +Hortense and Henry, standing very close together all through the +speech, had, in this respect, anticipated their employers by several +minutes. + +They were to be away two weeks only. No one knew just where, except +that some small part of the trip was to be spent on a flying visit to +young Jock McChesney out in Chicago. He himself was to be married very +soon. Emma McChesney had rather startled her very good-looking +husband-to-be by whirling about at him with, + +"T. A., do you realize that you're very likely to be a step-grandfather +some fine day not so far away!" + +T. A. had gazed at her for a rather shocked moment, swallowed hard, +smiled, and said, + +"Even that doesn't scare me, Emma." + +Everything had been planned down to the last detail. Mrs. McChesney's +little apartment had been subleased, and a very smart one taken and +furnished almost complete, with Annie installed in the kitchen and a +demure parlor-maid engaged. + +"When we come back, we'll come home," T. A. Buck had said. "Home!" + +There had been much to do, but it had all been done smoothly and +expertly, under the direction of these two who had learned how to plan, +direct, and carry out. + +Then, on the last day, Emma McChesney, visibly perturbed, entered her +partner's office, a letter in her hand. + +"This is ghastly!" she exclaimed. + +Buck pulled out a chair for her. + +"Klein cancel his order again?" + +"No. And don't ask me to sit down. Be thankful that I don't blow up." + +"Is it as bad as that?" + +"Bad! Here--read that! No, don't read it; I'll tell you. It'll +relieve my feelings. You know how I've been angling and scheming and +contriving and plotting for years to get an exclusive order from Gage & +Fosdick. Of course we've had a nice little order every few months, but +what's that from the biggest mail-order house in the world? And now, +out of a blue sky, comes this bolt from O'Malley, who buys our stuff, +saying that he's coming on the tenth--that's next week--that he's +planned to establish our line with their trade, and that he wants us to +be prepared for a record-breaking order. I've fairly prayed for this. +And now--what shall we do?" + +"Do?"--smoothly--"just write the gentleman and tell him you're busy +getting married this week and next, and that, by a singular +coincidence, your partner is similarly engaged; that our manager will +attend to him with all care and courtesy, unless he can postpone his +trip until our return. Suggest that he call around a week or two +later." + +"T. A. Buck, I know it isn't considered good form to rage and glare at +one's fiance on the eve of one's wedding-day. If this were a week +earlier or a week later, I'd be tempted to--shake you!" + +Buck stood up, came over to her, and laid a hand very gently on her +arm. With the other hand he took the letter from her fingers. + +"Emma, you're tired, and a little excited. You've been under an +unusual physical and mental strain for the last few weeks. Give me +that letter. I'll answer it. This kind of thing"--he held up the +letter--"has meant everything to you. If it had not, where would I be +to-day? But to-night, Emma, it doesn't mean a thing. Not--one thing." + +Slowly Emma McChesney's tense body relaxed. A great sigh that had in +it weariness and relief and acquiescence came from her. She smiled ever +so faintly. + +"I've been a ramrod so long it's going to be hard to learn to be a +clinging vine. I've been my own support for so many years, I don't use +a trellis very gracefully--yet. But I think I'll get the hang of it +very soon." + +She turned toward the door, crossed to her own office, looked all about +at the orderly, ship-shape room that reflected her personality--as did +any room she occupied. + +"Just the same," she called out, over her shoulder, to Buck in the +doorway, "I hate like fury to see that order slide." + +In hat and coat and furs she stood a moment, her fingers on the +electric switch, her eyes very bright and wide. The memories of ten +years, fifteen years, twenty years crowded up around her and filled the +little room. Some of them were golden and some of them were black; a +few had power to frighten her, even now. So she turned out the light, +stood for just another moment there in the darkness, then stepped out +into the hall, closed the door softly behind her, and stood face to +face with the lettering on the glass panel of the door--the lettering +that spelled the name, "MRS. MCCHESNEY." + +T. A. Buck watched her in silence. She reached up with one wavering +forefinger and touched each of the twelve letters, one after the other. +Then she spread her hand wide, blotting out the second word. And when +she turned away, one saw--she being Emma McChesney, and a woman, and +very tired and rather sentimental, and a bit hysterical and altogether +happy--that, though she was smiling, her eyes were wet. + + +In her ten years on the road, visiting town after town, catching +trains, jolting about in rumbling hotel 'buses or musty-smelling +small-town hacks, living in hotels, good, bad, and indifferent, Emma +McChesney had come upon hundreds of rice-strewn, ribbon-bedecked bridal +couples. She had leaned from her window at many a railway station to +see the barbaric and cruel old custom of bride-and-bridegroom baiting. +She had smiled very tenderly--and rather sadly, and hopefully, +too--upon the boy and girl who rushed breathless into the car in a +flurry of white streamers, flowers, old shoes, laughter, cheers, last +messages. Now, as in a dream, she found herself actually of these. Of +rice, old shoes, and badinage there had been none, it is true. She +stood quietly by while Buck attended to their trunks, just as she had +seen it done by hundreds of helpless little cotton-wool women who had +never checked a trunk in their lives--she, who had spent ten years of +her life wrestling with trunks and baggagemen and porters. Once there +was some trifling mistake--Buck's fault. Emma, with her experience of +the road, saw his error. She could have set him right with a word. It +was on the tip of her tongue. By sheer force of will she withheld that +word, fought back the almost overwhelming inclination to take things in +hand, set them right. It was just an incident, almost trifling in +itself. But its import was tremendous, for her conduct, that moment, +shaped the happiness of their future life together. + +Emma had said that there would be no rude awakenings for them, no +startling shocks. + +"There isn't a thing we don't know about each other," she had said. +"We each know the other's weaknesses and strength. I hate the way you +gnaw your mustache when you're troubled, and I think the fuss you make +when the waiter pours your coffee without first having given you sugar +and cream is the most absurd thing I've ever seen. But, then, I know +how it annoys you to see me sitting with one slipper dangling from my +toe, when I'm particularly comfortable and snug. You know how I like +my eggs, and you think it's immoral. I suppose we're really set in our +ways. It's going to be interesting to watch each other shift." + +"Just the same," Buck said, "I didn't dream there was any woman living +who could actually make a Pullman drawing-room look homelike." + +"Any woman who has spent a fourth of her life in hotels and trains +learns that trick. She has to. If she happens to be the sort that +likes books and flowers and sewing, she carries some of each with her. +And one book, one rose, and one piece of unfinished embroidery would +make an oasis in the Sahara Desert look homelike." + +It was on the westbound train that they encountered Sam--Sam of the +rolling eye, the genial grin, the deft hand. Sam was known to every +hardened traveler as the porter de luxe of the road. Sam was a +diplomat, a financier, and a rascal. He never forgot a face. He never +forgave a meager tip. The passengers who traveled with him were at +once his guests and his victims. + +Therefore his, "Good evenin', Mis' McChesney, ma'am. Good even'! +Well, it suh't'nly has been a long time sense Ah had the pleasuh of yoh +presence as passengah, ma'am. Ah sure am----" + +The slim, elegant figure of T. A. Buck appeared in the doorway. Sam's +rolling eye became a thing on ball bearings. His teeth flashed +startlingly white in the broadest of grins. He took Buck's hat, ran a +finger under its inner band, and shook it very gently. + +"What's the idea?" inquired Buck genially. "Are you a combination +porter and prestidigitator?" + +Sam chuckled his infectious negro chuckle. + +"Well, no, sah! Ah wouldn' go's fah as t' say that, sah. But Ah hab +been known to shake rice out of a gen'lman's ordinary, ever'-day, black +derby hat." + +"Get out!" laughed T. A. Buck, as Sam ducked. + +"You may as well get used to it," smiled Emma, "because I'm known to +every train-conductor, porter, hotel-clerk, chamber-maid, and bell-boy +between here and the Great Lakes." + +It was Sam who proved himself hero of the honeymoon, for he saved T. A. +Buck from continuing his journey to Chicago brideless. Fifteen minutes +earlier, Buck had gone to the buffet-car for a smoke. At Cleveland, +Emma, looking out of the car window, saw a familiar figure pacing up +and down the station platform. It was that dapper and important little +Irishman, O'Malley, buyer for Gage & Fosdick, the greatest mail-order +house in the world--O'Malley, whose letter T. A. Buck had answered; +O'Malley, whose order meant thousands. He was on his way to New York, +of course. + +In that moment Mrs. T. A. Buck faded into the background and Emma +McChesney rose up in her place. She snatched hat and coat and furs, +put them on as she went down the long aisle, swung down the car steps, +and flew down the platform to the unconscious O'Malley. He was +smoking, all unconscious. The Fates had delivered him into her expert +hands. She knew those kindly sisters of old, and she was the last to +refuse their largesse. + +"Mr. O'Malley!" + +He wheeled. + +"Mrs. McChesney!" He had just a charming trace of a brogue. His +enemies said he assumed it. "Well, who was I thinkin' of but you a +minute ago. What----" + +"I'm on my way to Chicago. Saw you from the car window. You're on the +New York train? I thought so. Tell me, you're surely seeing our man, +aren't you?" + +O'Malley's smiling face clouded. He was a temperamental Irishman--Ted +O'Malley--with ideas on the deference due him and his great house. + +"I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. McChesney. I had a letter from your Mr. +Buck. It wasn't much of a letter to a man like me, representing a +house like Gage & Fosdick. It said both heads of the firm would be out +of town, and would I see the manager. Me--see the manager! Well, +thinks I, if that's how important they think my order, then they'll not +get it--that's all. I've never yet----" + +"Dear Mr. O'Malley, please don't be offended. As a McChesney to an +O'Malley, I want to tell you that I've just been married." + +"Married! God bless me--to----" + +"To T. A. Buck, of course. He's on that train. He----" + +She turned toward the train. And as she turned it began to move, ever +so gently. At the same moment there sped toward her, with unbelievable +swiftness, the figure of Sam the porter, his eyes all whites. By one +arm he grasped her, and half carried, half jerked her to the steps of +the moving train, swung her up to the steps like a bundle of rags, +caught the rail by a miracle, and stood, grinning and triumphant, +gazing down at the panting O'Malley, who was running alongside the +train. + +"Back in a week. Will you wait for us in New York?" called Emma, her +breath coming fast. She was trembling, too, and laughing. + +"Will I wait!" called back the puffing O'Malley, every bit of the Irish +in him beaming from his eyes. "I'll be there when you get back as sure +as your name's McBuck." + +From his pocket he took a round, silver Western dollar and, still +running, tossed it to the toothy Sam. That peerless porter caught it, +twirled it, kissed it, bowed, and grinned afresh as the train glided +out of the shed. + +Emma, flushed, smiling, flew up the aisle. + +Buck, listening to her laughing, triumphant account of her hairbreadth, +harum-scarum adventure, frowned before he smiled. + +"Emma, how could you do it! At least, why didn't you send back for me +first?" + +Emma smiled a little tremulously. + +"Don't be angry. You see, dear boy, I've only been your wife for a +week. But I've been Featherloom petticoats for over fifteen years. +It's a habit." + +Just how strong and fixed a habit, she proved to herself a little more +than a week later. It was the morning of their first breakfast in the +new apartment. You would have thought, to see them over their coffee +and eggs and rolls, that they had been breakfasting together thus for +years--Annie was so at home in her new kitchen; the deft little maid, +in her crisp white, fitted so perfectly into the picture. Perhaps the +thing that T. A. Buck said, once the maid left them alone, might have +given an outsider the cue. + +"You remind me of a sweetpea, Emma. One of those crisp, erect, +golden-white, fresh, fragrant sweetpeas. I think it is the slenderest, +sweetest, neatest, trimmest flower in the world, so delicately set on +its stem, and yet so straight, so independent." + +"T. A., you say such dear things to me!" + +No; they had not been breakfasting together for years. + +"I'm glad you're not one of those women that wears a frowsy, lacy, +ribbony, what-do-you-call-'em-boudoir-cap--down to breakfast. They +always make me think of uncombed hair. That's just one reason why I'm +glad." + +"And I'm glad," said Emma, looking at his clear eyes and steady hand +and firm skin, "for a number of reasons. One of them is that you're +not the sort of man who's a grouch at breakfast." + +When he had hat and coat and stick in hand, and had kissed her good-by +and reached the door and opened it, he came back again, as is the way +of bridegrooms. But at last the door closed behind him. + +Emma sat there a moment, listening to his quick, light step down the +corridor, to the opening of the lift door, to its metallic closing. +She sat there, in the sunshiny dining-room, in her fresh, white morning +gown. She picked up her newspaper, opened it; scanned it, put it down. +For years, now, she had read her newspaper in little gulps on the way +downtown in crowded subway or street-car. She could not accustom +herself to this leisurely scanning of the pages. She rose, went to the +window, came back to the table, stood there a moment, her eyes fixed on +something far away. + +The swinging door between dining-room and butler's pantry opened. +Annie, in her neat blue-and-white stripes, stood before her. + +"Shall it be steak or chops to-night, Mrs. Mc--Buck?" + +Emma turned her head in Annie's direction--then her eyes. The two +actions were distinct and separate. + +"Steak or----" There was a little bewildered look in her eyes. + +Her mind had not yet focused on the question. "Steak--oh! Oh, yes, of +course! Why--why, Annie"--and the splendid thousand-h.-p. mind brought +itself down to the settling of this butter-churning, two-h.-p. +question--"why, Annie, considering all things, I think we'll make it +filet with mushrooms." + + + +IV + +BLUE SERGE + +For ten years, Mrs. Emma McChesney's home had been a wardrobe-trunk. +She had taken her family life at second hand. Four nights out of the +seven, her bed was "Lower Eight," and her breakfast, as many mornings, +a cinder-strewn, lukewarm horror, taken tete-a-tete with a sleepy-eyed +stranger and presided over by a white-coated, black-faced bandit, to +whom a coffee-slopped saucer was a matter of course. + +It had been her habit during those ten years on the road as traveling +saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, to avoid +the discomfort of the rapidly chilling car by slipping early into her +berth. There, in kimono, if not in comfort, she would shut down the +electric light with a snap, raise the shade, and, propped up on one +elbow, watch the little towns go by. They had a wonderful fascination +for her, those Middle Western towns, whose very names had a +comfortable, home-like sound--Sandusky, Galesburg, Crawfordsville, +Appleton--very real towns, with very real people in them. Peering +wistfully out through the dusk, she could get little intimate glimpses +of the home life of these people as the night came on. In those modest +frame houses near the station they need not trouble to pull down the +shades as must their cautious city cousins. As the train slowed down, +there could be had a glimpse of a matronly housewife moving deftly +about in the kitchen's warm-yellow glow, a man reading a paper in +slippered, shirt-sleeved comfort, a pig-tailed girl at the piano, a +woman with a baby in her arms, or a family group, perhaps, seated about +the table, deep in an after-supper conclave. It had made her homeless +as she was homesick. + +Emma always liked that picture best. Her keen, imaginative mind could +sense the scene, could actually follow the trend of the talk during +this, the most genial, homely, soul-cheering hour of the day. The +trifling events of the last twelve hours in schoolroom, in store, in +office, in street, in kitchen loom up large as they are rehearsed in +that magic, animated, cozy moment just before ma says, with a sigh: + +"Well, folks, go on into the sitting-room. Me and Nellie've got to +clear away." + +Just silhouettes as the train flashed by--these small-town people--but +very human, very enviable to Emma McChesney. + +"They're real," she would say. "They're regular, three-meals-a-day +people. I've been peeking in at their windows for ten years, and I've +learned that it is in these towns that folks really live. The +difference between life here and life in New York is the difference +between area and depth. D'you see what I mean? In New York, they live +by the mile, and here they live by the cubic foot. Well, I'd rather +have one juicy, thick club-steak than a whole platterful of +quarter-inch. It's the same idea." + +To those of her business colleagues whose habit it was to lounge in the +hotel window with sneering comment upon the small-town procession as it +went by, Emma McChesney had been wont to say: + +"Don't sneer at Main Street. When you come to think of it, isn't it +true that Fifth Avenue, any bright winter afternoon between four and +six, is only Main Street on a busy day multiplied by one thousand?" + +Emma McChesney was not the sort of woman to rail at a fate that had +placed her in the harness instead of in the carriage. But during all +the long years of up-hill pull, from the time she started with a humble +salary in the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, +through the years spent on the road, up to the very time when the crown +of success came to her in the form of the secretaryship of the +prosperous firm of T. A. Buck, there was a minor but fixed ambition in +her heart. That same ambition is to be found deep down in the heart of +every woman whose morning costume is a tailor suit, whose newspaper +must be read in hurried snatches on the way downtown in crowded train +or car, and to whom nine A.M. spells "Business." + +"In fifteen years," Emma McChesney used to say, "I've never known what +it is to loll in leisure. I've never had a chance to luxuriate. +Sunday? To a working woman, Sunday is for the purpose of repairing the +ravages of the other six days. By the time you've washed your brushes, +mended your skirt-braid, darned your stockings and gloves, looked for +gray hairs and crows'-feet, and skimmed the magazine section, it's +Monday." + +It was small wonder that Emma McChesney's leisure had been limited. In +those busy years she had not only earned the living for herself and her +boy; she had trained that boy into manhood and placed his foot on the +first rung of business success. She had transformed the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company from a placidly mediocre concern to a +thriving, flourishing, nationally known institution. All this might +have turned another woman's head. It only served to set Emma +McChesney's more splendidly on her shoulders. Not too splendidly, +however; for, with her marriage to her handsome business partner, T. A. +Buck, that well-set, independent head was found to fit very cozily into +the comfortable hollow formed by T. A. Buck's right arm. + +"Emma," Buck had said, just before their marriage, "what is the +arrangement to be after--after----" + +"Just what it is now, I suppose," Emma had replied, "except that we'll +come down to the office together." + +He had regarded her thoughtfully for a long minute. Then, "Emma, for +three months after our marriage will you try being just Mrs. T. A. +Buck?" + +"You mean no factory, no Featherlooms, no dictation, no business +bothers!" Her voice was a rising scale of surprise. + +"Just try it for three months, with the privilege of a lifetime, if you +like it. But try it. I--I'd like to see you there when I leave, Emma. +I'd like to have you there when I come home. I suppose I sound like a +selfish Turk, but----" + +"You sound like a regular husband," Emma McChesney had interrupted, +"and I love you for it. Now listen, T. A. For three whole months I'm +going to be what the yellow novels used to call a doll-wife. I'm going +to meet you at the door every night with a rose in my hair. I shall +wear pink things with lace ruffles on 'em. Don't you know that I've +been longing to do just those things for years and years? I'm going to +blossom out into a beauty. Watch me! I've never had time to study +myself. I'll hold shades of yellow and green and flesh-color up to my +face to see which brings out the right tints. I'm going to gaze at +myself through half-closed eyes to see which shade produces tawny +lights in my hair. Ever since I can remember, I've been so busy that +it has been a question of getting the best possible garments in the +least possible time for the smallest possible sum. In that case, one +gets blue serge. I've worn blue serge until it feels like a convict's +uniform. I'm going to blossom out into fawn and green and mauve. I +shall get evening dresses with only bead shoulder-straps. I'm going to +shop. I've never really seen Fifth Avenue between eleven and one, when +the real people come out. My views of it have been at nine A.M. when +the office-workers are going to work, and at five-thirty when they are +going home. I will now cease to observe the proletariat and mingle +with the predatory. I'll probably go in for those tiffin things at the +Plaza. If I do, I'll never be the same woman again." + +Whereupon she paused with dramatic effect. + +To all of which T. A. Buck had replied: + +"Go as far as you like. Take fencing lessons, if you want to, or +Sanskrit. You've been a queen bee for so many years that I think the +role of drone will be a pleasant change. Let me shoulder the business +worries for a while. You've borne them long enough." + +"It's a bargain. For three months I shall do nothing more militant +than to pick imaginary threads off your coat lapel and pout when you +mention business. At the end of those three months we'll go into +private session, compare notes, and determine whether the plan shall +cease or become permanent. Shake hands on it." + +They shook hands solemnly. As they did so, a faint shadow of doubt +hovered far, far back in the depths of T. A. Buck's fine eyes. And a +faint, inscrutable smile lurked in the corners of Emma's lips. + +So it was that Emma McChesney, the alert, the capable, the brisk, the +business-like, assumed the role of Mrs. T. A. Buck, the leisurely, the +languid, the elegant. She, who formerly, at eleven in the morning, +might have been seen bent on selling the best possible bill of spring +Featherlooms to Joe Greenbaum, of Keokuk, Iowa, could now be found in a +modiste's gray-and-raspberry salon, being draped and pinned and fitted. +She, whose dynamic force once charged the entire office and factory +with energy and efficiency, now distributed a tithe of that priceless +vigor here, a tithe there, a tithe everywhere, and thus broke the very +backbone of its power. + +She had never been a woman to do things by halves. What she undertook +to do she did thoroughly and whole-heartedly. This principle she +applied to her new mode of life as rigidly as she had to the old. + +That first month slipped magically by. Emma was too much a woman not +to feel a certain exquisite pleasure in the selecting of delicate and +becoming fabrics. There was a thrill of novelty in being able to spend +an hour curled up with a book after lunch, to listen to music one +afternoon a week, to drive through the mistily gray park; to walk up +the thronged, sparkling Avenue, pausing before its Aladdin's Cave +windows. Simple enough pleasures, and taken quite as a matter of +course by thousands of other women who had no work-filled life behind +them to use as contrast. + +She plunged into her new life whole-heartedly. The first new gown was +exciting. It was a velvet affair with furs, and gratifyingly becoming. +Her shining blond head rose above the soft background of velvet and fur +with an effect to distract the least observing. + +"Like it?" she had asked Buck, turning slowly, frankly sure of herself. + +"You're wonderful in it," said T. A. Buck. "Say, Emma, where's that +blue thing you used to wear--the one with the white cuffs and collar, +and the little blue hat with the what-cha-ma-call-ems on it?" + +"T. A. Buck, you're--you're--well, you're a man, that's what you are! +That blue thing was worn threadbare in the office, and I gave it to the +laundress's niece weeks ago." Small wonder her cheeks took on a deeper +pink. + +"Oh," said Buck, unruffled, "too bad! There was something about that +dress--I don't know----" + +At the first sitting of the second gown, Emma revolted openly. + +On the floor at Emma's feet there was knotted into a contortionistic +attitude a small, wiry, impolite person named Smalley. Miss Smalley +was an artist in draping and knew it. She was the least fashionable +person in all that smart dressmaking establishment. She refused to +notice the corset-coiffure-and-charmeuse edict that governed all other +employees in the shop. In her shabby little dress, her steel-rimmed +spectacles, her black-sateen apron, Smalley might have passed for a +Bird Center home dressmaker. Yet, given a yard or two or three of +satin and a saucer of pins, Smalley could make the dumpiest of +debutantes look like a fragile flower. + +At a critical moment Emma stirred. Handicapped as she was by a +mouthful of nineteen pins and her bow-knot attitude, Smalley still +could voice a protest. + +"Don't move!" she commanded, thickly. + +"Wait a minute," Emma said, and moved again, more disastrously than +before. "Don't you think it's too--too young?" + +She eyed herself in the mirror anxiously, then looked down at Miss +Smalley's nut-cracker face that was peering up at her, its lips pursed +grotesquely over the pins. + +"Of course it is," mumbled Miss Smalley. "Everybody's clothes are too +young for 'em nowadays. The only difference between the dresses we +make for girls of sixteen and the dresses we make for their +grandmothers of sixty is that the sixty-year-old ones want 'em shorter +and lower, and they run more to rose-bud trimming." + +Emma surveyed the acid Miss Smalley with a look that was half amused, +half vexed, wholly determined. + +"I shan't wear it. Heaven knows I'm not sixty, but I'm not sixteen +either! I don't want to be." + +Miss Smalley, doubling again to her task, flung upward a grudging +compliment. + +"Well, anyway, you've got the hair and the coloring and the figure for +it. Goodness knows you look young enough!" + +"That's because I've worked hard all my life," retorted Emma, almost +viciously. "Another month of this leisure and I'll be as wrinkled as +the rest of them." + +Smalley's magic fingers paused in their manipulation of a soft fold of +satin. + +"Worked? Earned a living? Used your wits and brains every day against +the wits and brains of other folks?" + +"Every day." + +Into the eyes of Miss Smalley, the artist in draping, there crept the +shrewd twinkle of Miss Smalley, the successful woman in business. She +had been sitting back on her knees, surveying her handiwork through +narrowed lids. Now she turned her gaze on Emma, who was smiling down +at her. + +"Then for goodness' sake don't stop! I've found out that work is a +kind of self-oiler. If you're used to it, the minute you stop you +begin to get rusty, and your hinges creak and you clog up. And the +next thing you know, you break down. Work that you like to do is a +blessing. It keeps you young. When my mother was my age, she was +crippled with rheumatism, and all gnarled up, and quavery, and all she +had to look forward to was death. Now me--every time the styles in +skirts change I get a new hold on life. And on a day when I can make a +short, fat woman look like a tall, thin woman, just by sitting here on +my knees with a handful of pins, and giving her the line she needs, I +go home feeling like I'd just been born." + +"I know that feeling," said Emma, in her eyes a sparkle that had long +been absent. "I've had it when I've landed a thousand-dollar +Featherloom order from a man who has assured me that he isn't +interested in our line." + +At dinner that evening, Emma's gown was so obviously not of the new +crop that even her husband's inexpert eye noted it. + +"That's not one of the new ones, is it?" + +"This! And you a manufacturer of skirts!" + +"What's the matter with the supply of new dresses? Isn't there enough +to go round?" + +"Enough! I've never had so many new gowns in my life. The trouble is +that I shan't feel at home in them until I've had 'em all dry-cleaned +at least once." + +During the second month, there came a sudden, sharp change in skirt +modes. For four years women had been mincing along in garments so +absurdly narrow that each step was a thing to be considered, each +curbing or car-step demanding careful negotiation. Now, Fashion, in +her freakiest mood, commanded a bewildering width of skirt that was +just one remove from the flaring hoops of Civil War days. Emma knew +what that meant for the Featherloom workrooms and selling staff. New +designs, new models, a shift in prices, a boom for petticoats, for four +years a garment despised. + +A hundred questions were on the tip of Emma's tongue; a hundred +suggestions flashed into her keen mind; there occurred to her a +wonderful design for a new model which should be full and flaring +without being bulky and uncomfortable as were the wide petticoats of +the old days. + +But a bargain was a bargain. Still, Emma Buck was as human as Emma +McChesney had been. She could not resist a timid, + +"T. A., are you--that is--I was just wondering--you're making 'em wide, +I suppose, for the spring trade." + +A queer look flashed into T. A. Buck's eyes--a relieved look that was +as quickly replaced by an expression both baffled and anxious. + +"Why--a--mmmm--yes--oh, yes, we're making 'em up wide, but----" + +"But what?" Emma leaned forward, tense. + +"Oh, nothing--nothing." + +During the second month there came calling on Emma, those solid and +heavy New Yorkers, with whom the Buck family had been on friendly terms +for many years. They came at the correct hour, in their correct motor +or conservative broughams, wearing their quietly correct clothes, and +Emma gave them tea, and they talked on every subject from suffrage to +salad dressings, and from war to weather, but never once was mention +made of business. And Emma McChesney's life had been interwoven with +business for more than fifteen years. + +There were dinners--long, heavy, correct dinners. Emma, very well +dressed, bright-eyed, alert, intelligent, vital, became very popular at +these affairs, and her husband very proud of her popularity. And if +any one as thoroughly alive as Mrs. T. A. Buck could have been bored to +extinction by anything, then those dinners would have accomplished the +deadly work. + +"T. A.," she said one evening, after a particularly large affair of +this sort, "T. A., have you ever noticed anything about me that is +different from other women?" + +"Have I? Well, I should say I----" + +"Oh, I don't mean what you mean, dear--thanks just the same. I mean +those women tonight. They all seem to 'go in' for something--votes or +charity or dancing or social service, or something--even the girls. +And they all sounded so amateurish, so untrained, so unprepared, yet +they seemed to be dreadfully in earnest." + +"This is the difference," said T. A. Buck. "You've rubbed up against +life, and you know. They've always been sheltered, but now they want +to know. Well, naturally they're going to bungle and bump their heads +a good many times before they really find out." + +"Anyway," retorted Emma, "they want to know. That's something. It's +better to have bumped your head, even though you never see what's on +the other side of the wall, than never to have tried to climb it." + +It was in the third week of the third month that Emma encountered +Hortense. Hortense, before her marriage to Henry, the shipping-clerk, +had been a very pretty, very pert, very devoted little stenographer in +the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. She had +married just a month after her employers, and Emma, from the fulness of +her own brimming cup of happiness, had made Hortense happy with a gift +of linens and lingerie and lace of a fineness that Hortense's +beauty-loving, feminine heart could never have hoped for. + +They met in the busy aisle of a downtown department store and shook +hands as do those who have a common bond. + +Hortense, as pretty as ever and as pert, spoke first. + +"I wouldn't have known you, Mrs. Mc-- Buck!" + +"No? Why not?" + +"You look--no one would think you'd ever worked in your life. I was +down at the office the other day for a minute--the first time since I +was married. They told me you weren't there any more." + +"No; I haven't been down since my marriage either. I'm like you--an +elegant lady of leisure." + +Hortense's bright-blue eyes dwelt searchingly on the face of her former +employer. + +"The bunch in the office said they missed you something awful." Then, +in haste: "Oh, I don't mean that Mr. Buck don't make things go all +right. They're awful fond of him. But--I don't know--Miss Kelly said +she never has got over waiting for the sound of your step down the hall +at nine--sort of light and quick and sharp and busy, as if you couldn't +wait till you waded into the day's work. Do you know what I mean?" + +"I know what you mean," said Emma. + +There was a little pause. The two women so far apart, yet so near; so +different, yet so like, gazed far down into each other's soul. + +"Miss it, don't you?" said Hortense. + +"Yes; don't you?" + +"Do I! Say----" She turned and indicated the women surging up and +down the store aisles, and her glance and gesture were replete with +contempt. "Say; look at 'em! Wandering around here, aimless as a lot +of chickens in a barnyard. Half of 'em are here because they haven't +got anything else to do. Think of it! I've watched 'em lots of times. +They go pawing over silks and laces and trimmings just for the pleasure +of feeling 'em. They stand in front of a glass case with a figure in it +all dressed up in satin and furs and jewels, and you'd think they were +worshiping an idol like they used to in the olden days. They don't seem +to have anything to do. Nothing to occupy their--their heads. Say, if +I thought I was going to be like them in time, I----" + +"Hortense, my dear child, you're--you're happy, aren't you? Henry----" + +"Well, I should say we are! I'm crazy about Henry, and he thinks I'm +perfect. Honestly, ain't they a scream! They think they're so big and +manly and all, and they're just like kids; ain't it so? We're living +in a four-room apartment in Harlem. We've got it fixed up too cozy for +anything." + +"I'd like to come and see you," said Emma. Hortense opened her eyes +wide. + +"Honestly; if you would----" + +"Let's go up now. I've the car outside." + +"Now! Why I--I'd love it!" + +They chattered like schoolgirls on the way uptown--these two who had +found so much in common. The little apartment reached, Hortense threw +open the door with the confident gesture of the housekeeper who is not +afraid to have her household taken by surprise--whose housekeeping is +an index of character. + +Hortense had been a clean-cut little stenographer. Her correspondence +had always been free from erasures, thumb-marks, errors. Her four-room +flat was as spotless as her typewritten letters had been. The kitchen +shone in its blue and white and nickel. A canary chirped in the tiny +dining-room. There were books and magazines on the sitting-room table. +The bedroom was brave in its snowy spread and the toilet silver that +had been Henry's gift to her the Christmas they became engaged. + +Emma examined everything, exclaimed over everything, admired +everything. Hortense glowed like a rose. + +"Do you really like it? I like the green velours in the sitting-room, +don't you? It's always so kind and cheerful. We're not all settled +yet. I don't suppose we ever will be. Sundays, Henry putters around, +putting up shelves, and fooling around with a can of paint. I always +tell him he ought to have lived on a farm, where he'd have elbow-room." + +"No wonder you're so happy and busy," Emma exclaimed, and patted the +girl's fresh, young cheek. + +Hortense was silent a moment. + +"I'm happy," she said, at last, "but I ain't busy. And--well, if +you're not busy, you can't be happy very long, can you?" + +"No," said Emma, "idleness, when you're not used to it, is misery." + +"There! You've said it! It's like running on half-time when you're +used to a day-and-night shift. Something's lacking. It isn't that +Henry isn't grand to me, because he is. Evenings, we're so happy that +we just sit and grin at each other and half the time we forget to go to +a 'movie.' After Henry leaves in the morning, I get to work. I +suppose, in the old days, when women used to have to chop the kindling, +and catch the water for washing in a rain-barrel, and keep up a fire in +the kitchen stove and do their own bread baking and all, it used to +keep 'em hustling. But, my goodness! A four-room flat for two isn't +any work. By eleven, I'm through. I've straightened everything, from +the bed to the refrigerator; the marketing's done, and the dinner +vegetables are sitting around in cold water. The mending for two is a +joke. Henry says it's a wonder I don't sew double-breasted buttons on +his undershirts." + +Emma was not smiling. But, then, neither was Hortense. She was +talking lightly, seemingly, but her pretty face was quite serious. + +"The big noise in my day is when Henry comes home at six. That was all +right and natural, I suppose, in those times when a quilting-bee was a +wild afternoon's work, and teaching school was the most advanced job a +woman could hold down." + +Emma was gazing fascinated at the girl's sparkling face. Her own eyes +were very bright, and her lips were parted. + +"Tell me, Hortense," she said now; "what does Henry say to all this? +Have you told him how you feel?" + +"Well, I--I talked to him about it once or twice. I told him that I've +got about twenty-four solid hours a week that I might be getting fifty +cents an hour for. You know, I worked for a manuscript-typewriting +concern before I came over to Buck's--plays and stories and that kind +of thing. They used to like my work because I never queered their +speeches by leaving out punctuation or mixing up the characters. The +manager there said I could have work any time I wanted it. I've got my +own typewriter. I got it second hand when I first started in. Henry +picks around on it sometimes, evenings. I hardly ever touch it. It's +getting rusty--and so am I." + +"It isn't just the money you want, Hortense? Are you sure?" + +"Of course I'd like the money. That extra coming in would mean +books--I'm crazy about reading, and so is Henry--and theaters and lots +of things we can't afford now. But that isn't all. Henry don't want +to be a shipping-clerk all his life. He's crazy about mechanics and +that kind of stuff. But the books that he needs cost a lot. Don't you +suppose I'd be proud to feel that the extra money I'd earned would lift +him up where he could have a chance to be something! But Henry is dead +set against it. He says he is the one that's going to earn the money +around here. I try to tell him that I'm used to using my mind. He +laughs and pinches my cheek and tells me to use it thinking about him." +She stopped suddenly and regarded Emma with conscience-stricken eyes. +"You don't think I'm running down Henry, do you? My goodness, I don't +want you to think that I'd change back again for a million dollars, +because I wouldn't." She looked up at Emma, conscience-stricken. + +Emma came swiftly over and put one hand on the girl's shoulder. + +"I don't think it. Not for a minute. I know that the world is full of +Henrys, and that the number of Hortenses is growing larger and larger. +I don't know if the four-room flats are to blame, or whether it's just +a natural development. But the Henry-Hortense situation seems to be +spreading to the nine-room-and-three-baths apartments, too." + +Hortense nodded a knowing head. + +"I kind of thought so, from the way you were listening." + +The two, standing there gazing at each other almost shyly, suddenly +began to laugh. The laugh was a safety-valve. Then, quite as +suddenly, both became serious. That seriousness had been the +under-current throughout. + +"I wonder," said Emma very gently, "if a small Henry, some day, won't +provide you with an outlet for all that stored-up energy." + +Hortense looked up very bravely. + +"Maybe. You--you must have been about my age when your boy was born. +Did he make you feel--different?" + +The shade of sadness that always came at the mention of those unhappy +years of her early marriage crept into Emma's face now. + +"That was not the same, dear," she explained. "I hadn't your sort of +Henry. You see, my boy was my only excuse for living. You'll never +know what that means. And when things grew altogether impossible, and +I knew that I must earn a living for Jock and myself, I just did +it--that's all. I had to." + +Hortense thought that over for one deliberate moment. Her brows were +drawn in a frown. + +"I'll tell you what I think," she announced, at last, "though I don't +know that I can just exactly put it into words. I mean this: Some +people are just bound to--to give, to build up things, to--well, to +manufacture, because they just can't help it. It's in 'em, and it's +got to come out. Dynamos--that's what Henry's technical books would +call them. You're one--a great big one. I'm one. Just a little tiny +one. But it's sparking away there all the time, and it might as well +be put to some use, mightn't it?" + +Emma bent down and kissed the troubled forehead, and then, very +tenderly, the pretty, puckered lips. + +"Little Hortense," she said, "you're asking a great big question. I +can answer it for myself, but I can't answer it for you. It's too +dangerous. I wouldn't if I could." + +Emma, waiting in the hall for the lift, looked back at the slim little +figure in the doorway. There was a droop to the shoulders. Emma's +heart smote her. + +"Don't bother your head about all this, little girl," she called back +to her. "Just forget to be ambitious and remember to be happy. That's +much the better way." + +Hortense, from the doorway, grinned a rather wicked little grin. + +"When are you going back to the office, Mrs. Buck?" she asked, quietly +enough. + +"What makes you think I'm going back at all?" demanded Emma, stepping +into the shaky little elevator. + +"I don't think it," retorted Hortense, once more the pert. "I know it." + +Emma knew it, too. She had known it from the moment that she shook +hands in her compact. There was still one week remaining of the +stipulated three months. It seemed to Emma that that one week was +longer than the combined eleven. But she went through with colors +flying. Whatever Emma McChesney Buck did, she did well. But, then, T. +A. Buck had done his part well, too--so well that, on the final day, +Emma felt a sinking at her heart. He seemed so satisfied with affairs +as they were. He was, apparently, so content to drop all thought of +business when he left the office for his home. + + +Emma had planned a very special little dinner that evening. She wore a +very special gown, too--one of the new ones. T. A. noticed it at once, +and the dinner as well, being that kind of husband. Still, Annie, the +cook, complained later, to the parlor-maid, about the thanklessness of +cooking dinners for folks who didn't eat more'n a mouthful, anyway. + +Dinner over, + +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. Buck. + +"Light your cigar, T. A.," said Emma. "You'll need it." + +T. A. lighted it with admirable leisureliness, sent out a great puff of +fragrant smoke, and surveyed his wife through half-closed lids. +Beneath his air of ease there was a tension. + +"Well, Emma?" he said again, gently. + +Emma looked at him a moment appreciatively. She had too much poise and +balance and control herself not to recognize and admire those qualities +in others. + +"T. A., if I had been what they call a homebody, we wouldn't be married +to-day, would we?" + +"No." + +"You knew plenty of home-women that you could have married, didn't you?" + +"I didn't ask them, Emma, but----" + +"You know what I mean. Now listen, T. A.: I've loafed for three +months. I've lolled and lazied and languished. And I've never been so +tired in my life--not even when we were taking January inventory. +Another month of this, and I'd be an old, old woman. I understand, +now, what it is that brings that hard, tired, stony look into the faces +of the idle women. They have to work so hard to try to keep happy. I +suppose if I had been a homebody all my life, I might be hardened to +this kind of thing. But it's too late now. And I'm thankful for it. +Those women who want to shop and dress and drive and play are welcome +to my share of it. If I am to be punished in the next world for my +wickedness in this, I know what form my torture will take. I shall +have to go from shop to shop with a piece of lace in my hand, matching +a sample of insertion. Fifteen years of being in the thick of it spoil +one for tatting and tea. The world is full of homebodies, I suppose. +And they're happy. I suppose I might have been one, too, if I hadn't +been obliged to get out and hustle. But it's too late to learn now. +Besides, I don't want to. If I do try, I'll be destroying the very +thing that attracted you to me in the first place. Remember what you +said about the Fifth Avenue girl?" + +"But, Emma," interrupted Buck very quietly, "I don't want you to try." + +Emma, with a rush of words at her very lips, paused, eyed him for a +doubtful moment, asked a faltering question. + +"But it was your plan--you said you wanted me to be here when you came +home and when you left, didn't you? Do you mean you----" + +"I mean that I've missed my business partner every minute for three +months. All the time we've been going to those fool dinners and all +that kind of thing, I've been bursting to talk skirts to you. I--say, +Emma, Adler's designed a new model--a full one, of course, but there's +something wrong with it. I can't put my finger on the flaw, but----" + +Emma came swiftly over to his chair. + +"Make a sketch of it, can't you?" she said. From his pocket Buck drew +a pencil, an envelope, and fell to sketching rapidly, squinting down +through his cigar smoke as he worked. + +"It's like this," he began, absorbed and happy; "you see, where the +fulness begins at the knee----" + +"Yes!" prompted Emma, breathlessly. + +Two hours later they were still bent over the much marked bit of paper. +But their interest in it was not that of those who would solve a +perplexing problem. It was the lingering, satisfied contemplation of a +task accomplished. + +Emma straightened, leaned back, sighed--a victorious, happy sigh. + +"And to think," she said, marveling, "to think that I once envied the +women who had nothing to do but the things I've done in the last three +months!" + +Buck had risen, stretched luxuriously, yawned. Now he came over to his +wife and took her head in his two hands, cozily, and stood a moment +looking into her shining eyes. + +"Emma, I may have mentioned this once or twice before, but perhaps +you'll still be interested to know that I think you're a wonder. A +wonder! You're the----" + +"Oh, well, we won't quarrel about that," smiled Emma brazenly. "But I +wonder if Adler will agree with us when he sees what we've done to his +newest skirt design." + +Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her. She was off down the +hall. Buck, following in a leisurely manner, hands in pockets, stood +in the bedroom door and watched her plunge into the innermost depths of +the clothes-closet. + +"What's the idea, Emma?" + +"Looking for something," came back his wife's muffled tones. + +A long wait. + +"Can I help?" + +"I've got it!" cried Emma, and emerged triumphant, flushed, smiling, +holding a garment at arm's length, aloft. + +"What----" + +Emma shook it smartly, turned it this way and that, held it up under +her chin by the sleeves. + +"Why, girl!" exclaimed Buck, all a-grin, "it's the----" + +"The blue serge," Emma finished for him, "with the white collars and +cuffs. And what's more, young man, it's the little blue hat with the +what-cha-ma-call-ems on it. And praise be! I'm wearing 'em both +down-town to-morrow morning." + + + +V + +"HOOPS, MY DEAR!" + +Emma McChesney Buck always vigorously disclaimed any knowledge of that +dreamy-eyed damsel known as Inspiration. T. A. Buck, her +husband-partner, accused her of being on intimate terms with the lady. +So did the adoring office staff of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. Out in the workshop itself, the designers and cutters, those +jealous artists of the pencil, shears, and yardstick, looked on in awed +admiration on those rare occasions when the feminine member of the +business took the scissors in her firm white hands and slashed boldly +into a shimmering length of petticoat-silk. When she put down the +great shears, there lay on the table the detached parts of that which +the appreciative and experienced eyes of the craftsmen knew to be a new +and original variation of that elastic garment known as the underskirt. + +For weeks preceding one of these cutting-exhibitions, Emma was likely +to be not quite her usual brisk self. A mystic glow replaced the alert +brightness of her eye. Her wide-awake manner gave way to one of almost +sluggish inactivity. + +The outer office, noting these things, would lift its eyebrows +significantly. + +"Another hunch!" it would whisper. "The last time she beat the rest of +the trade by six weeks with that elastic-top gusset." + +"Inspiration working, Emma?" T. A. Buck would ask, noting the symptoms. + +"It isn't inspiration, T. A. Nothing of the kind! It's just an attack +of imagination, complicated by clothes-instinct." + +"That's all that ails Poiret," Buck would retort. + +Early in the autumn, when women were still walking with an absurd +sidewise gait, like a duck, or a filly that is too tightly hobbled, the +junior partner of the firm began to show unmistakable signs of business +aberration. A blight seemed to have fallen upon her bright little +office, usually humming with activity. The machinery of her day, +ordinarily as noiseless and well ordered as a thing on ball bearings, +now rasped, creaked, jerked, stood still, jolted on again. A bustling +clerk or stenographer, entering with paper or memorandum, would find +her bent over her desk, pencil in hand, absorbed in a rough drawing +that seemed to bear no relation to the skirt of the day. The margin of +her morning paper was filled with queer little scrawls by the time she +reached the office. She drew weird lines with her fork on the +table-cloth at lunch. These hieroglyphics she covered with a quick +hand, like a bashful schoolgirl, when any one peeped. + +"Tell a fellow what it's going to be, can't you?" pleaded Buck. + +"I got one glimpse yesterday, when you didn't know I was looking over +your shoulder. It seemed a pass between an overgrown Zeppelin and an +apple dumpling. So I know it can't be a skirt. Come on, Emma; tell +your old man!" + +"Not yet," Emma would reply dreamily. + +Buck would strike an attitude intended to intimidate. + +"If you have no sense of what is due me as your husband, then I demand, +as senior partner of this firm, to know what it is that is taking your +time, which rightfully belongs to this business." + +"Go away, T. A., and stop pestering me! What do you think I'm +designing--a doily?" + +Buck, turning to go to his own office, threw a last retort over his +shoulder--a rather sobering one, this time. + +"Whatever it is, it had better be good--with business what it is and +skirts what they are." + +Emma lifted her head to reply to that. + +"It isn't what they are that interests me. It's what they're going to +be." + +Buck paused in the doorway. + +"Going to be! Anybody can see that. Underneath that full, fool, +flaring over-drape, the real skirt is as tight as ever. I don't think +the spring models will show an inch of real difference. I tell you, +Emma, it's serious." + +Emma, apparently absorbed in her work, did not reply to this. But a +vague something about the back of her head told T. A. Buck that she was +laughing at him. The knowledge only gave him new confidence in this +resourceful, many-sided, lovable, level-headed partner-wife of his. + +Two weeks went by--four--six--eight. Emma began to look a little thin. +Her bright color was there only when she was overtired or excited. The +workrooms began to talk of new designs for spring, though it was +scarcely mid-winter. The head designer came forward timidly with a +skirt that measured a yard around the bottom. Emma looked at it, tried +to keep her lower lip prisoner between her teeth, failed, and began to +laugh helplessly, almost hysterically. + +Amazement in the faces of Buck and Koritz, the designer, became +consternation, then, in the designer, resentment. + +Koritz, dark, undersized, with the eyes of an Oriental and the lean, +sensitive fingers of one who creates, shivered a little, like a plant +that is swept by an icy blast. Buck came over and laid one hand on his +wife's shaking shoulder. + +"Emma, you're overtired! This--this thing you've been slaving over has +been too much for you." + +With one hand, Emma reached up and patted the fingers that rested +protectingly on her shoulder. With the other, she wiped her eyes, +then, all contrition, grasped the slender brown hand of the offended +Koritz. + +"Bennie, please forgive me! I--I didn't mean to laugh. I wasn't +laughing at your new skirt." + +"You think it's too wide, maybe, huh?" Bennie Koritz said, and held it +up doubtfully. + +"Too wide!" For a moment Emma seemed threatened with another attack of +that inexplicable laughter. She choked it back resolutely. + +"No, Bennie; not too wide. I'll tell you to-morrow why I laughed. +Then, perhaps, you'll laugh with me." + +Bennie, draping his despised skirt-model over one arm, had the courage +to smile even now, though grimly. + +"I laugh--sure," he said, showing his white teeth now. "But the laugh +will be, I bet you, on me--like it was when you designed that +knickerbocker before the trade knew such a thing could be." + +Impulsively Emma grasped his hand and shook it, as though she found a +certain needed encouragement in the loyalty of this sallow little +Russian. + +"Bennie, you're a true artist--because you're big enough to praise the +work of a fellow craftsman when you recognize its value." And Koritz, +the dull red showing under the olive of his cheeks, went back to his +cutting-table happy. + +Buck bent forward, eagerly. + +"You're going to tell me now, Emma? It's finished?" + +"To-night--at home. I want to be the first to try it on. I'll play +model. A private exhibition, just for you. It's not only finished; it +is patented." + +"Patented! But why? What is it, anyway? A new fastener? I thought +it was a skirt." + +"Wait until you see it. You'll think I should have had it copyrighted +as well, not to say passed by the national board of censors." + +"Do you mean to say that I'm to be the entire audience at the premiere +of this new model?" + +"You are to be audience, critic, orchestra, box-holder, patron, and +'Diamond Jim' Brady. Now run along into your own office--won't you, +dear? I want to get out these letters." And she pressed the button +that summoned a stenographer. + +T. A. Buck, resigned, admiring, and anticipatory, went. + +Annie, the cook, was justified that evening in her bitter complaint. +Her excellent dinner received scant enough attention from these two. +They hurried through it like eager, bright-eyed school-children who +have been promised a treat. Two scarlet spots glowed in Emma's cheeks. +Buck's eyes, through the haze of his after-dinner cigar, were luminous. + +"Now?" + +"No; not yet. I want you to smoke your cigar and digest your dinner +and read your paper. I want you to twiddle your thumbs a little and +look at your watch. First-night curtains are always late in rising, +aren't they? Well!" + +She turned on the full glare of the chandelier, turned it off, went +about flicking on the soft-shaded wall lights and the lamps. + +"Turn your chair so that your back will be toward the door." + +He turned it obediently. + +Emma vanished. + +From the direction of her bedroom there presently came the sounds of +dresser drawers hurriedly opened and shut with a bang, of a slipper +dropped on the hard-wood floor, a tune hummed in an absent-minded +absorption under the breath, an excited little laugh nervously stifled. +Buck, in his role of audience, began to clap impatiently and to stamp +with his feet on the floor. + +"No gallery!" Emma called in from the hall. "Remember the +temperamental family on the floor below!" A silence--then: "I'm +coming. Shut your eyes and prepare to be jarred by the Buck +balloon-petticoat!" + +There was a rustling of silks, a little rush to the center of the big +room, a breathless pause, a sharp snap of finger and thumb. Buck opened +his eyes. + +He opened his eyes. Then he closed them and opened them again, +quickly, as we do, sometimes, when we are unwilling to believe that +which we see. What he beheld was this: A very pretty, very flushed, +very bright-eyed woman, her blond hair dressed quaintly after the +fashion of the early 'Sixties, her arms and shoulders bare, a pink-slip +with shoulder-straps in lieu of a bodice, and--he passed a bewildered +hand over his eyes a skirt that billowed and flared and flounced and +spread in a great, graceful circle--a skirt strangely light for all its +fulness--a skirt like, and yet, somehow, unlike those garments seen in +ancient copies of Godey's Lady Book. + +"That can't be--you don't mean--what--what IS it?" stammered Buck, +dismayed. + +Emma, her arms curved above her head like a ballet-dancer's, +pirouetted, curtsied very low so that the skirt spread all about her on +the floor, like the petals of a flower. + +"Hoops, my dear!" + +"Hoops!" echoed Buck, in weak protest. "Hoops, my DEAR!" + +Emma stroked one silken fold with approving fingers. + +"Our new leader for spring." + +"But, Emma, you're joking!" + +She stared, suddenly serious. + +"You mean--you don't like it!" + +"Like it! For a fancy-dress costume, yes; but as a petticoat for +every-day wear, to be made up by us for our customers! But of course +you're playing a trick on me." He laughed a little weakly and came +toward her. "You can't catch me that way, old girl! It's darned +becoming, Emma--I'll say that." He bent down, smiling. "I'll allow +you to kiss me. And then try me with the real surprise, will you?" + +Her coquetry vanished. Her smile fled with it. Her pretty pose was +abandoned. Mrs. T. A. Buck, wife, gave way to Emma McChesney Buck, +business woman. She stiffened a little, as though bracing herself for +a verbal encounter. + +"You'll get used to it. I expected you to be jolted at the first shock +of it. I was, myself--when the idea came to me." + +Buck passed a frenzied forefinger under his collar, as though it had +suddenly grown too tight for him. + +"Used to it! I don't want to get used to it! It's preposterous! You +can't be serious! No woman would wear a garment like that! For five +years skirts have been tighter and tighter----" + +"Until this summer they became tightest," interrupted Emma. "They could +go no farther. I knew that meant, 'About face!' I knew it meant not a +slightly wider skirt but a wildly wider skirt. A skirt as bouffant as +the other had been scant. I was sure it wouldn't be a gradual process +at all but a mushroom growth--hobbles to-day, hoops to-morrow. Study +the history of women's clothes, and you'll find that has always been +true." + +"Look here, Emma," began Buck, desperately; "you're wrong, all wrong! +Here, let me throw this scarf over your shoulders. Now we'll sit down +and talk this thing over sensibly." + +"I'll agree to the scarf"--she drew a soft, silken, fringed shawl about +her and immediately one thought of a certain vivid, brilliant portrait +of a hoop-skirted dancer--"but don't ask me to sit down. I'd rebound +like a toy balloon. I've got to convince you of this thing. I'll have +to do it standing." + +Buck sank into his chair and dabbed at his forehead with his +handkerchief. + +"You'll never convince me, sitting or standing. Emma, I know I fought +the knickerbocker when you originated it, and I know that it turned out +to be a magnificent success. But this is different. The knicker was +practical; this thing's absurd--it's impossible! This is an age of +activity. In Civil War days women minced daintily along when they +walked at all. They stitched on samplers by way of diversion." + +"What has all that to do with it?" inquired Emma sweetly. + +"Everything. Use a little logic." + +"Logic! In a discussion about women's dress! T. A., I'm surprised." + +"But, Emma, be reasonable. Good Lord! You're usually clear-sighted +enough. Our mode of living has changed in the last fifty years--our +methods of transit, our pastimes, customs, everything. Imagine a woman +trying to climb a Fifth Avenue 'bus in one of those things. Fancy her +in a hot set of tennis. Women use street-cars, automobiles, airships. +Can you see a subway train full of hoop-skirted clerks, stenographers, +and models? Street-car steps aren't built for it. Office-building +elevators can't stand for it. Six-room apartments won't accommodate +'em. They're fantastic, wild, improbable. You're wrong, Emma--all +wrong!" + +She had listened patiently enough, never once attempting to interrupt. +But on her lips was the maddening half-smile of one whose rebuttal is +ready. Now she perched for a moment at the extreme edge of the arm of +a chair. Her skirt subsided decorously. Buck noticed that, with +surprise, even in the midst of his heated protest. + +"T. A., you've probably forgotten, but those are the very arguments +used when the hobble was introduced. Preposterous, people +said--impossible! Women couldn't walk in 'em. Wouldn't, couldn't sit +down in 'em. Women couldn't run, play tennis, skate in them. The car +steps were too high for them. Well, what happened? Women had to walk +in them, and a new gait became the fashion. Women took lessons in how +to sit down in them. They slashed them for tennis and skating. And +street-car companies all over the country lowered the car steps to +accommodate them. What's true for the hobble holds good for the hoop. +Women will cease to single-foot and learn to undulate when they walk. +They'll widen the car platforms. They'll sit on top the Fifth Avenue +'buses, and you'll never give them a second thought." + +"The things don't stay where they belong. I've seen 'em misbehave in +musical comedies," argued Buck miserably. + +"That's where my patent comes in. The old hoop was cumbersome, +unwieldy, clumsy. The new skirt, by my patent featherboning process, +is made light, graceful, easily managed. T. A., I predict that by +midsummer a tight skirt will be as rare a sight as a full one was a +year ago." + +"Nonsense!" + +"We're not quarreling, are we?" + +"Quarreling! I rather think not! A man can have his own opinion, +can't he?" + +It appeared, however, that he could not. For when they had threshed it +out, inch by inch, as might two partners whose only bond was business, +it was Emma who won. + +"Remember, I'm not convinced," Buck warned her; "I'm only beaten by +superior force. But I do believe in your woman's intuition--I'll say +that. It has never gone wrong. I'm banking on it. + +"It's woman's intuition when we win," Emma observed, thoughtfully. +"When we lose it's a foolish, feminine notion." + +There were to be no half-way measures. The skirt was to be the feature +of the spring line. Cutters and designers were one with Buck in +thinking it a freak garment. Emma reminded them that the same thing +had been said of the hobble on its appearance. + +In February, Billy Spalding, veteran skirt-salesman, led a flying wedge +of six on a test-trip that included the Middle West and the Coast. +Their sample-trunks had to be rebuilt to accommodate the new model. +Spalding, shirt-sleeved, whistling dolorously, eyed each garment with a +look of bristling antagonism. Spalding sold skirts on commission. + +Emma, surveying his labors, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. + +"If you're going to sell that skirt as enthusiastically as you pack it, +you'd better stay here in New York and save the house traveling +expenses." + +Spalding ceased to whistle. He held up a billowy sample and gazed at +it. + +"Honestly, Mrs. Buck, you know I'd try to sell pretzels in London if +you asked me to. But do you really think any woman alive would be +caught wearing a garment like this in these days?" + +"Not only do I think it, Billy; I'm certain of it. This new petticoat +makes me the Lincoln of the skirt trade. I'm literally freeing my +sisters from the shackles that have bound their ankles for five years." + +Spalding, unimpressed, folded another skirt. + +"Um, maybe! But what's that line about slaves hugging their chains?" + +The day following, Spalding and his flying squad scattered to spread +the light among the skirt trade. And things went wrong from the start. + +The first week showed an ominous lack of those cheering epistles +beginning, "Enclosed please find," etc. The second was worse. The +third was equally bad. The fourth was final. The second week in +March, Spalding returned from a territory which had always been known +as firmly wedded to the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat. The Middle +West would have none of him. + +They held the post-mortem in Emma's bright little office, and that lady +herself seemed to be strangely sunny and undaunted, considering the +completeness of her defeat. She sat at her desk now, very interested, +very bright-eyed, very calm. Buck, in a chair at the side of her desk, +was interested, too, but not so calm. Spalding, who was accustomed to +talk while standing, leaned against the desk, feet crossed, brows +furrowed. As he talked, he emphasized his remarks by jabbing the air +with his pencil. + +"Well," said Emma quietly, "it didn't go." + +"It didn't even start," corrected Spalding. + +"But why?" demanded Buck. "Why?" + +Spalding leaned forward a little, eagerly. + +"I'll tell you something: When I started out with that little garment, +I thought it was a joke. Before I'd been out with it a week, I began +to like it. In ten days, I was crazy about it, and I believed in it +from the waistband to the hem. On the level, Mrs. Buck, I think it's a +wonder. Now, can you explain that?" + +"Yes," said Emma; "you didn't like it at first because it was a shock +to you. It outraged all your ideas of what a skirt ought to be. Then +you grew accustomed to it. Then you began to see its good points. Why +couldn't you make the trade get your viewpoint?" + +"This is why: Out in Manistee and Oshkosh and Terre Haute, the girls +have just really learned the trick of walking in tight skirts. It's as +impossible to convince a Middle West buyer that the exaggerated full +skirt is going to be worn next summer as it would be to prove to him +that men are going to wear sunbonnets. They thought I was trying to +sell 'em masquerade costumes. I may believe in it, and you may believe +in it, and T. A.; but the girls from Joplin--well, they're from Joplin. +And they're waiting to hear from headquarters." + +T. A. Buck crossed one leg over the other and sat up with a little sigh. + +"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said. + +"It does not," replied Emma McChesney Buck crisply. "If they want to +hear from headquarters, they won't have long to wait." + +"Now, Emma, don't try to push this thing if it----" + +"T. A., please don't look so forgiving. I'd much rather have you +reproach me." + +"It's you I'm thinking of, not the skirt." + +"But I want you to think of the skirt, too. We've gone into this +thing, and it has cost us thousands. Don't think I'm going to sit +quietly by and watch those thousands trickle out of our hands. We've +played our first card. It didn't take a trick. Here's another." + +Buck and Spalding were leaning forward, interested, attentive. There +was that in Emma's vivid, glowing face which did not mean defeat. + +"March fifteenth, at Madison Square Garden, there is to be held the +first annual exhibition of the Society for the Promotion of American +Styles for American Women. For one hundred years we've taken our +fashions as Paris dictated, regardless of whether they outraged our +sense of humor or decency or of fitness. This year the American +designer is going to have a chance. Am I an American designer, T. A., +Billy?" + +"Yes!" in chorus. + +"Then I shall exhibit that skirt on a live model at the First Annual +American Fashion Show next month. Every skirt-buyer in the country +will be there. If it takes hold there, it's made--and so are we." + +March came, and with it an army of men and women buyers, dependent, for +the first time in their business careers, on the ingenuity of the +American brain. The keen-eyed legions that had advanced on Europe +early, armed with letters of credit--the vast horde that returned each +spring and autumn laden with their spoils--hats, gowns, laces, linens, +silks, embroideries--were obliged to content themselves with what was +to be found in their own camp. + +Clever manager that she was, Emma took as much pains with her model as +with the skirt itself. She chose a girl whose demure prettiness and +quiet charm would enhance the possibilities of the skirt's +practicability in the eye of the shrewd buyer. Gertrude, the model, +developed a real interest in the success of the petticoat. Emma knew +enough about the psychology of crowds to realize how this increased her +chances for success. + +The much heralded fashion show was to open at one o'clock on the +afternoon of March fifteenth. At ten o'clock that morning, there +breezed in from Chicago a tall, slim, alert young man, who made +straight for the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, walked into the junior partner's private office, and took that +astonished lady in his two strong arms. + +"Jock McChesney!" gasped his rumpled mother, emerging from the hug. +"I've been hungry for a sight of you!" She was submerged in a second +hug. "Come here to the window where I can get a real look at you! Why +didn't you wire me? What are you doing away from your own job? How's +business? And why come to-day, of all days, when I can't make a fuss +over you?" + +Jock McChesney, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, steady of hand, stood up +well under the satisfied scrutiny of his adoring mother. He smiled +down at her. + +"Wanted to surprise you. Here for three reasons--the Abbott +Grape-juice advertising contract, you, and Grace. And why can't you +make a fuss over me, I'd like to know?" + +Emma told him. His keen, quick mind required little in the way of +explanation. + +"But why didn't you let me in on it sooner?" + +"Because, son, nothing explains harder than embryo success. I always +prefer to wait until it's grown up and let it do its own explaining." + +"But the thing ought to have national advertising," Jock insisted, with +the advertising expert's lightning grasp of its possibilities. "What +that skirt needs is publicity. Why didn't you let me handle----" + +"Yes, I know, dear; but you haven't seen the skirt. It won't do to ram +it down their throats. I want to ease it to them first. I want them to +get used to it. It failed utterly on the road, because it jarred their +notion of what a petticoat ought to be. That's due to five years of +sheath skirts." + +"But suppose--just for the sake of argument--that it doesn't strike +them right this afternoon?" + +"Then it's gone, that's all. Six months from now, every skirt-factory +in the country will be manufacturing a similar garment. People will be +ready for it then. I've just tried to cut in ahead of the rest. +Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to do it." + +Jock hugged her again at that, to the edification of the office windows +across the way. + +"Gad, you're a wiz, mother! Now listen: I 'phoned Grace when I got +in. She's going to meet me here at one. I'll chase over to the office +now on this grape-juice thing and come back here in time for lunch. Is +T. A. in? I'll look in on him a minute. We'll all lunch together, and +then----" + +"Can't do it, son. The show opens at one. Gertrude, my model, comes +on at three. She's going to have the stage to herself for ten minutes, +during which she'll make four changes of costume to demonstrate the +usefulness of the skirt for every sort of gown from chiffon to velvet. +Come back here at one, if you like. If I'm not here, come over to the +show. But--lunch! I'd choke." + +At twelve-thirty, there scampered into Emma's office a very +white-faced, round-eyed little stock-girl. Emma, deep in a last-minute +discussion with Buck, had a premonition of trouble before the girl +gasped out her message. + +"Oh, Mrs. Buck, Gertie's awful sick!" + +"Sick!" echoed Emma and Buck, in duet. Then Emma: + +"But she can't be! It's impossible! She was all right a half hour +ago." She was hurrying down the hall as she spoke. "Where is she?" + +"They've got her on one of the tables in the workroom. She's moaning +awful." + +Gertie's appendix, with that innate sense of the dramatic so often +found in temperamental appendices, had indeed chosen this moment to +call attention to itself. Gertie, the demurely pretty and quietly +charming, was rolled in a very tight ball on the workroom +cutting-table. At one o'clock, she was on her way home in a cab, under +the care of a doctor, Miss Kelly, the bookkeeper, and Jock, who, coming +in gaily at one, had been pressed into service, bewildered but willing. + +Three rather tragic figures stared at one another in the junior +partner's office. They were Emma, Buck, and Grace Galt, Jock's +wife-to-be. Grace Galt, slim, lovely, girlish, was known, at +twenty-four, as one of the most expert copy writers in the advertising +world. In her clear-headed, capable manner, she tried to suggest a way +out of the difficulty now. + +"But surely the world's full of girls," she said. "It's late, I know; +but any theatrical agency will send a girl over." + +"That's just what I tried to avoid," Emma replied. "I wanted to show +this skirt on a sweet, pretty, refined sort of girl who looks and acts +like a lady. One of those blond show girls would kill it." + +Gloom settled down again over the three. Emma broke the silence with a +rueful little laugh. + +"I think," she said, "that perhaps you're right, T. A., and this is the +Lord's way of showing me that the world is not quite ready for this +skirt." + +"You're not beaten yet, Emma," Buck assured her vigorously. "How about +this new girl--what's her name?--Myrtle. She's one of those thin, limp +ones, isn't she? Try her." + +"I will," said Emma. "You're right. I'm not beaten yet. I've had to +fight for everything worth while in my life. I'm superstitious about +it now. When things come easy I'm afraid of them." Then, to the +stock-girl, "Annie, tell Myrtle I want to see her." + +Silence fell again upon the three. Myrtle, very limp, very thin, very +languid indeed, roused them at her entrance. The hopeful look in +Emma's eyes faded as she beheld her. Myrtle was so obviously limp, so +hopelessly new. + +"Annie says you want me to take Gertie's place," drawled Myrtle, +striking a magazine-cover attitude. + +"I don't know that you are just the--er--type; but perhaps, if you're +willing----" + +"Of course I didn't come here as a model," said Myrtle, and sagged on +the other hip. "But, as a special favor to you I'm willing to try +it--at special model's rates." + +Emma ran a somewhat frenzied hand through her hair. + +"Then, as a special favor to me, will you begin by trying to stand up +straight, please? That debutante slouch would kill a queen's +coronation costume." + +Myrtle straightened, slumped again. + +"I can't help it if I am willowy"--listlessly. + +"Your hair!" Myrtle's hand went vaguely to her head. "I can't have you +wear it that way." + +"Why, this is the French roll!" protested Myrtle, offended. + +"Then do it in a German bun!" snapped Emma. "Any way but that. Will +you walk, please?" + +"Walk?"--dully. + +"Yes, walk; I want to see how you----" + +Myrtle walked across the room. A groan came from Emma. + +"I thought so." She took a long breath. + +"Myrtle, listen: That Australian crawl was necessary when our skirts +were so narrow we had to negotiate a curbing before we could take it. +But the skirt you're going to demonstrate is wide. Like that! You're +practically a free woman in it. Step out! Stride! Swing! Walk!" + +Myrtle tried it, stumbled, sulked. + +Emma, half smiling, half woeful, patted the girl's shoulder. + +"Oh, I see; you're wearing a tight one. Well, run in and get into the +skirt. Miss Loeb will help you. Then come back here--and quickly, +please." + +The three looked at each other in silence. It was a silence brimming +with eloquent meaning. Each sought encouragement in the eyes of the +other--and failed to find it. Failing, they broke into helpless +laughter. It proved a safety-valve. + +"She may do, Emma--when she has her hair done differently, and if +she'll only stand up." + +But Emma shook her head. + +"T. A., something tells me you're going to have a wonderful chance to +say, 'I told you so!' at three o'clock this afternoon." + +"You know I wouldn't say it, Emma." + +"Yes; I do know it, dear. But what's the difference, if the chance is +there?" + +Suspense settled down on the little office. Billy Spalding entered, +smiling. After five minutes of waiting, even his buoyant spirits sank. + +"Don't you think--if you were to go in and--and sort of help adjust +things----" suggested Buck vaguely. + +"No; I don't want to prop her up. She'll have to stand alone when she +gets there. She'll either do, or not. When she enters that door, I'll +know." + +When Myrtle entered, wearing the fascinatingly fashioned new model, +they all knew. + +Emma spoke decisively. + +"That settles it." + +"What's the matter? Don't it look all right?" demanded Myrtle. + +"Take it off, Myrtle." + +Then, to the others, as Myrtle, sulking, left the room: + +"I can stand to see that skirt die if necessary. But I won't help +murder it." + +"But, Mrs. Buck," protested Spalding, almost tearfully, "you've got to +exhibit that skirt. You've got to!" + +Emma shook a sorrowing head. + +"That wouldn't be an exhibition, Billy. It would be an expose." + +Spalding clapped a desperate hand to his bald head. + +"If only I had Julian Eltinge's shape, I'd wear it to the show for you +myself." + +"That's all it needs now," retorted Emma grimly. + +Whereupon, Grace Galt spoke up in her clear, decisive voice. + +"Wait a minute," she said quietly. "I'm going to wear that skirt at +the fashion show." + +"You!" cried the three, like a trained trio. + +"Why not?" demanded Grace Galt, coolly. Then: "No; don't tell me why +not. I won't listen." + +But Emma, equally cool, would have none of it. + +"It's impossible, dear. You're an angel to want to help me. But you +must know it's quite out of the question." + +"It's nothing of the kind. This skirt isn't merely a fad. It has a +fortune in it. I'm business woman enough to know that. You've got to +let me do it. It isn't only for yourself. It's for T. A. and for the +future of the firm." + +"Do you suppose I'd allow you to stand up before all those people?" + +"Why not? I don't know them. They don't know me. I can make them get +the idea in that skirt. And I'm going to do it. You don't object to +me on the same grounds that you did to Myrtle, do you?" + +"You!" burst from the admiring Spalding. "Say, you'd make a +red-flannel petticoat look like crepe de Chine and lace." + +"There!" said Grace, triumphant. "That settles it!" And she was off +down the hall. They stood a moment in stunned silence. Then: + +"But Jock!" protested Emma, following her. "What will Jock say? Grace! +Grace dear! I can't let you do it! I can't!" + +"Just unhook this for me, will you?" replied Grace Galt sweetly. + +At two o'clock, Jock McChesney, returned from his errand of mercy, +burst into the office to find mother, step-father, and fiancee all +flown. + +"Where? What?" he demanded of the outer office. + +"Fashion show!" chorused the office staff + +"Might have waited for me," Jock said to himself, much injured. And +hurled himself into a taxi. + +There was a crush of motors and carriages for a block on all sides of +Madison Square Garden. He had to wait for what seemed an interminable +time at the box-office. Then he began the task of worming his way +through the close-packed throng in the great auditorium. It was a +crowd such as the great place had not seen since the palmy days of the +horse show. It was a crowd that sparkled and shone in silks and +feathers and furs and jewels. + +"Jove, if mother has half a chance at this gang!" Jock told himself. +"If only she has grabbed some one who can really show that skirt!" + +He was swept with the crowd toward a high platform at the extreme end +of the auditorium. All about that platform stood hundreds, close +packed, faces raised eagerly, the better to see the slight, graceful, +girlish figure occupying the center of the stage--a figure strangely +familiar to Jock's eyes in spite of its quaintly billowing, ante-bellum +garb. She was speaking. Jock, mouth agape, eyes protruding, ears +straining, heard, as in a daze, the sweet, clear, charmingly modulated +voice: + +"The feature of the skirt, ladies and gentlemen, is that it gives a +fulness without weight, something which the skirt-maker has never +before been able to achieve. This is due to the patent featherboning +process invented by Mrs. T. A. Buck, of the T. A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company, New York. Note, please, that it has all the +advantages of our grandmother's hoop-skirt, but none of its awkward +features. It is graceful"--she turned slowly, lightly--"it is +bouffant" she twirled on her toes--"it is practical, serviceable, +elegant. It can be made up in any shade, in any material--silk, lace, +crepe de Chine, charmeuse, taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company is prepared to fill orders for immediate----" + +"Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again, +heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors turned +upon him, "Well, I'll--be--darned!" + +A hand twitched his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His mother, +very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through the throng. As +they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a great burst of +applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, shifting, nodding, +staccato movements which mean approval in a mass of people. + +"What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When--did she--did she----" + +Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand. + +"I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. I tried +to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's done it, I tell +you! She's done it! They love the skirt! Listen to 'em!" + +"Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her." + +"Angry, dear!" + +"Me? No! I'm--I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and looks, +that little girl; she's got nerve--the real kind! Gee, how did I ever +have the gall to ask her to marry me!" + +Together they sped toward the door that led to the dressing-rooms. +Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as he looked at this +wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance. + +"She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the steps +in one leap. + +"Well, T. A.?" said Emma. + +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. + +Which burst of eloquence was interrupted abruptly by a short, squat, +dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in his right, +and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that volatile, voluble +person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. Fromkin, of the "Fromkin +Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!" + +"I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd little +eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?" + +"Not here," said Buck abruptly. + +"Sure--here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got a thing +on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for the rights to +that skirt?" + +"Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use to one +who has suggested taking a beloved child from her. + +"Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that skirt +right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a shock. +You'll see. They won't buy. They're afraid of it. I'll take it off +your hands and push it right, see? I offer you forty thousand for the +rights to make that skirt and advertise it as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce +Skirt. It Flares!'" + +Emma smiled. + +"How much?" she asked quizzically. + +Abel I. Fromkin gulped. + +"Fifty thousand," he said. + +"Fifty thousand," repeated Emma quietly, and looked at Buck. "Thanks, +Mr. Fromkin! I know, now, that if it's worth fifty thousand to you +to-day as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!' then it's worth +one hundred and fifty thousand to us as the 'T. A. Buck +Balloon-Petticoat. It Billows!'" + +And it was. + + + +VI + +SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN + +Women who know the joys and sorrows of a pay envelope do not speak of +girls who work as Working Girls. Neither do they use the term Laboring +Class, as one would speak of a distinct and separate race, like the +Ethiopian. + +Emma McChesney Buck was no exception to this rule. Her fifteen years +of man-size work for a man-size salary in the employ of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, precluded that. In those +days, she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, known from coast to coast as +the most successful traveling saleswoman in the business. It was due +to her that no feminine clothes-closet was complete without a +Featherloom dangling from one hook. During those fifteen years she had +educated her son, Jock McChesney, and made a man of him; she had +worked, fought, saved, triumphed, smiled under hardship; and she had +acquired a broad and deep knowledge of those fascinating and +diversified subjects which we lump carelessly under the heading of +Human Nature. She was Mrs. T. A. Buck now, wife of the head of the +firm, and partner in the most successful skirt manufactory in the +country. But the hard-working, clear-thinking, sane-acting habits of +those fifteen years still clung. + +Perhaps this explained why every machine-girl in the big, bright shop +back of the offices raised adoring eyes when Emma entered the workroom. +Italian, German, Hungarian, Russian--they lifted their faces toward +this source of love and sympathetic understanding as naturally as a +plant turns its leaves toward the sun. They glowed under her praise; +they confided to her their troubles; they came to her with their +joys--and they copied her clothes. + +This last caused her some uneasiness. When Mrs. T. A. Buck wore blue +serge, an epidemic of blue serge broke out in the workroom. Did Emma's +spring hat flaunt flowers, the elevators, at closing time, looked like +gardens abloom. If she appeared on Monday morning in severely tailored +white-linen blouse, the shop on Tuesday was a Boston seminary in its +starched primness. + +"It worries me," Emma told her husband-partner. "I can't help thinking +of the story of the girl and the pet chameleon. What would happen if I +were to forget myself some day and come down to work in black velvet +and pearls?" + +"They'd manage it somehow," Buck assured her. "I don't know just how; +but I'm sure that twenty-four hours later our shop would look like a +Buckingham drawing-room when the court is in mourning." + +Emma never ceased to marvel at their ingenuity, at their almost uncanny +clothes-instinct. Their cheap skirts hung and fitted with an art as +perfect as that of a Fifty-seventh Street modiste; their blouses, in +some miraculous way, were of to-day's style, down to the last detail of +cuff or collar or stitching; their hats were of the shape that the +season demanded, set at the angle that the season approved, and +finished with just that repression of decoration which is known as +"single trimming." They wore their clothes with a chic that would make +the far-famed Parisian outriere look dowdy and down at heel in +comparison. Upper Fifth Avenue, during the shopping or tea-hour, has +been sung, painted, vaunted, boasted. Its furs and millinery, its eyes +and figure, its complexion and ankles have flashed out at us from ten +thousand magazine covers, have been adjectived in reams of +Sunday-supplement stories. Who will picture Lower Fifth Avenue between +five and six, when New York's unsung beauties pour into the streets +from a thousand loft-buildings? Theirs is no mere empty pink-and-white +prettiness. Poverty can make prettiness almost poignantly lovely, for +it works with a scalpel. Your Twenty-sixth Street beauty has a certain +wistful appeal that your Forty-sixth Street beauty lacks; her very +bravado, too, which falls just short of boldness, adds a final piquant +touch. In the face of the girl who works, whether she be a +spindle-legged errand-girl or a ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyer, you +will find both vivacity and depth of expression. What she loses in +softness and bloom she gains in a something that peeps from her eyes, +that lurks in the corners of her mouth. Emma never tired of studying +them--these girls with their firm, slim throats, their lovely faces, +their Oriental eyes, and their conscious grace. Often, as she looked, +an unaccountable mist of tears would blur her vision. + +So that sunny little room whose door was marked "MRS. BUCK" had come to +be more than a mere private office for the transaction of business. It +was a clearing-house for trouble; it was a shrine, a confessional, and +a court of justice. When Carmela Colarossi, her face swollen with +weeping, told a story of parental harshness grown unbearable, Emma +would put aside business to listen, and six o'clock would find her +seated in the dark and smelly Colarossi kitchen, trying, with all her +tact and patience and sympathy, to make home life possible again for +the flashing-eyed Carmela. When the deft, brown fingers of Otti Markis +became clumsy at her machine, and her wage slumped unaccountably from +sixteen to six dollars a week, it was in Emma's quiet little office +that it became clear why Otti's eyes were shadowed and why Otti's mouth +drooped so pathetically. Emma prescribed a love philter made up of +common sense, understanding, and world-wisdom. Otti took it, only half +comprehending, but sure of its power. In a week, Otti's eyes were +shadowless, her lips smiling, her pay-envelope bulging. But it was in +Sophy Kumpf that the T. A. Buck Company best exemplified its policy. +Sophy Kumpf had come to Buck's thirty years before, slim, pink-cheeked, +brown-haired. She was a grandmother now, at forty-six, broad-bosomed, +broad-hipped, but still pink of cheek and brown of hair. In those +thirty years she had spent just three away from Buck's. She had brought +her children into the world; she had fed them and clothed them and sent +them to school, had Sophy, and seen them married, and helped them to +bring their children into the world in turn. In her round, red, +wholesome face shone a great wisdom, much love, and that infinite +understanding which is born only of bitter experience. She had come to +Buck's when old T. A. was just beginning to make Featherlooms a +national institution. She had seen his struggles, his prosperity; she +had grieved at his death; she had watched young T. A. take the reins in +his unaccustomed hands, and she had gloried in Emma McChesney's rise +from office to salesroom, from salesroom to road, from road to private +office and recognized authority. Sophy had left her early work far +behind. She had her own desk now in the busy workshop, and it was she +who allotted the piece-work, marked it in her much-thumbed ledger--that +powerful ledger which, at the week's end, decided just how plump or +thin each pay-envelope would be. So the shop and office at T. A. +Buck's were bound together by many ties of affection and sympathy and +loyalty; and these bonds were strongest where, at one end, they touched +Emma McChesney Buck, and, at the other, faithful Sophy Kumpf. Each a +triumphant example of Woman in Business. + +It was at this comfortable stage of Featherloom affairs that the +Movement struck the T. A. Buck Company. Emma McChesney Buck had never +mingled much in movements. Not that she lacked sympathy with them; she +often approved of them, heart and soul. But she had been heard to say +that the Movers got on her nerves. Those well-dressed, glib, staccato +ladies who spoke with such ease from platforms and whose pictures +stared out at one from the woman's page failed, somehow, to convince +her. When Emma approved a new movement, it was generally in spite of +them, never because of them. She was brazenly unapologetic when she +said that she would rather listen to ten minutes of Sophy Kumpf's +world-wisdom than to an hour's talk by the most magnetic and +silken-clad spellbinder in any cause. For fifteen business years, in +the office, on the road, and in the thriving workshop, Emma McChesney +had met working women galore. Women in offices, women in stores, women +in hotels--chamber-maids, clerks, buyers, waitresses, actresses in road +companies, women demonstrators, occasional traveling saleswomen, women +in factories, scrubwomen, stenographers, models--every grade, type and +variety of working woman, trained and untrained. She never missed a +chance to talk with them. She never failed to learn from them. She +had been one of them, and still was. She was in the position of one who +is on the inside, looking out. Those other women urging this cause or +that were on the outside, striving to peer in. + +The Movement struck T. A. Buck's at eleven o'clock Monday morning. +Eleven o'clock Monday morning in the middle of a busy fall season is +not a propitious moment for idle chit-chat. The three women who +stepped out of the lift at the Buck Company's floor looked very much +out of place in that hummingly busy establishment and appeared, on the +surface, at least, very chit-chatty indeed. So much so, that T. A. +Buck, glancing up from the cards which had preceded them, had +difficulty in repressing a frown of annoyance. T. A. Buck, during his +college-days, and for a lamentably long time after, had been known as +"Beau" Buck, because of his faultless clothes and his charming manner. +His eyes had something to do with it, too, no doubt. He had lived down +the title by sheer force of business ability. No one thought of using +the nickname now, though the clothes, the manner, and the eyes were the +same. At the entrance of the three women, he had been engrossed in the +difficult task of selling a fall line to Mannie Nussbaum, of Portland, +Oregon. Mannie was what is known as a temperamental buyer. He couldn't +be forced; he couldn't be coaxed; he couldn't be led. But when he +liked a line he bought like mad, never cancelled, and T. A. Buck had +just got him going. It spoke volumes for his self-control that he +could advance toward the waiting three, his manner correct, his +expression bland. + +"I am Mr. Buck," he said. "Mrs. Buck is very much engaged. I +understand your visit has something to do with the girls in the shop. +I'm sure our manager will be able to answer any questions----" + +The eldest women raised a protesting, white-gloved hand. + +"Oh, no--no, indeed! We must see Mrs. Buck." She spoke in the crisp, +decisive platform-tones of one who is often addressed as "Madam +Chairman." + +Buck took a firmer grip on his self-control. + +"I'm sorry; Mrs. Buck is in the cutting-room." + +"We'll wait," said the lady, brightly. She stepped back a pace. "This +is Miss Susan H. Croft"--indicating a rather sparse person of very +certain years--"But I need scarcely introduce her." + +"Scarcely," murmured Buck, and wondered why. + +"This is my daughter, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells." + +Buck found himself wondering why this slim, negative creature should +have such sad eyes. There came an impatient snort from Mannie +Nussbaum. Buck waved a hasty hand in the direction of Emma's office. + +"If you'll wait there, I'll send in to Mrs. Buck." + +The three turned toward Emma's bright little office. Buck scribbled a +hasty word on one of the cards. + +Emma McChesney Buck was leaning over the great cutting-table, shears in +hand. It might almost be said that she sprawled. Her eyes were very +bright, and her cheeks were very pink. Across the table stood a +designer and two cutters, and they were watching Emma with an +intentness as flattering as it was sincere. They were looking not only +at cloth but at an idea. + +"Get that?" asked Emma crisply, and tapped the pattern spread before +her with the point of her shears. "That gives you the fulness without +bunching, d'you see?" + +"Sure," assented Koritz, head designer; "but when you get it cut you'll +find this piece is wasted, ain't it?" He marked out a triangular +section of cloth with one expert forefinger. + +"No; that works into the ruffle," explained Emma. "Here, I'll cut it. +Then you'll see." + +She grasped the shears firmly in her right hand, smoothed the cloth +spread before her with a nervous little pat of her left, pushed her +bright hair back from her forehead, and prepared to cut. At which +critical moment there entered Annie, the errand-girl, with the three +bits of white pasteboard. + +Emma glanced down at them and waved Annie away. + +"Can't see them. Busy." + +Annie stood her ground. + +"Mr. Buck said you'd see 'em. They're waiting." + +Emma picked up one of the cards. On it Buck had scribbled a single +word: "Movers." Mrs. T. A. Buck smiled. A little malicious gleam +came into her eyes. + +"Show 'em in here, Annie," she commanded, with a wave of the huge +shears. "I'll teach 'em to interrupt me when I've got my hands in the +bluing-water." + +She bent over the table again, measuring with her keen eye. When the +three were ushered in a moment later, she looked up briefly and nodded, +then bent over the table again. But in that brief moment she had the +three marked, indexed and pigeonholed. If one could have looked into +that lightning mind of hers, one would have found something like this: + +"Hmm! What Ida Tarbell calls 'Restless women.' Money, and always have +had it. Those hats were born in one of those exclusive little shops +off the Avenue. Rich but somber. They think they're advanced, but +they still resent the triumph of the motor-car over the horse. That +girl can't call her soul her own. Good eyes, but too sad. He probably +didn't suit mother." + +What she said was: + +"Howdy-do. We're just bringing a new skirt into the world. I thought +you might like to be in at the birth." + +"How very interesting!" chirped the two older women. The girl said +nothing, but a look of anticipation brightened her eyes. It deepened +and glowed as Emma McChesney Buck bent to her task and the great jaws +of the shears opened and shut on the virgin cloth. Six pairs of eyes +followed the fascinating steel before which the cloth rippled and fell +away, as water is cleft by the prow of a stanch little boat. Around +the curves went the shears, guided by Emma's firm white hands, +snipping, slashing, doubling on itself, a very swashbuckler of a shears. + +"There!" exclaimed Emma at last, and dropped the shears on the table +with a clatter. "Put that together and see whether it makes a skirt or +not. Now, ladies!" + +The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that comes up +from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off successfully, with a +final shower of stars. + +"Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the way to her +office. + +The three followed in silence. They were strangely silent, too, as +they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously enough, it +was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to speak. + +"I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished and +actually ready to wear." + +She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss Orton-Wells +had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the girl's hand just once. +At that there came a look into Miss Orton-Wells' eyes, and you saw that +most decidedly she had her charm. + +Up spoke Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Gladys is such an enthusiast! That's really her reason for being +here. Gladys is very much interested in working girls. In fact, we +are all, as you probably know, intensely interested in the working +woman." + +"Thank you!" said Emma McChesney Buck. + +"That's very kind. We working women are very grateful to you." + +"We!" exclaimed Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan Croft blankly, and in +perfect time. + +Emma smiled sweetly. + +"Surely you'll admit that I'm a working woman." + +Miss Susan H. Croft was not a person to be trifled with. She +elucidated acidly. + +"We mean women who work with their hands." + +"By what power do you think those shears were moved across the +cutting-table? We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board." + +Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly. + +"But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring Class." + +"I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to Saturday, +inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the laboring class I +don't want to belong." + +It was here that Mrs. Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to be +trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, fixed Emma +Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, sails spread. + +"Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious errand. It +ought to interest you vitally because of the position you occupy in the +world of business. We are launching a campaign against the +extravagant, ridiculous, and oftentimes indecent dress of the working +girl, with especial reference to the girl who works in garment +factories. They squander their earnings in costumes absurdly unfitted +to their station in life. Our plan is to influence them in the +direction of neatness, modesty, and economy in dress. At present each +tries to outdo the other in style and variety of costume. Their shoes +are high-heeled, cloth-topped, their blouses lacy and collarless, their +hats absurd. We propose a costume which shall be neat, becoming, and +appropriate. Not exactly a uniform, perhaps, but something with a +fixed idea in cut, color, and style. A corps of twelve young ladies +belonging to our best families has been chosen to speak to the shop +girls at noon meetings on the subject of good taste, health, and +morality in women's dress. My daughter Gladys is one of them. In this +way, we hope to convince them that simplicity, and practicality, and +neatness are the only proper notes in the costume of the working girl. +Occupying as you do a position unique in the business world, Mrs. Buck, +we expect much from your cooperation with us in this cause." + +Emma McChesney Buck had been gazing at Mrs. Orton-Wells with an +intentness as flattering as it was unfeigned. But at the close of Mrs. +Orton-Wells' speech she was strangely silent. She glanced down at her +shoes. Now, Emma McChesney Buck had a weakness for smart shoes which +her slim, well-arched foot excused. Hers were what might be called +intelligent-looking feet. There was nothing thick, nothing clumsy, +nothing awkward about them. And Emma treated them with the +consideration they deserved. They were shod now, in a pair of slim, +aristocratic, and modish ties above which the grateful eye caught a +flashing glimpse of black-silk stocking. Then her eye traveled up her +smartly tailored skirt, up the bodice of that well-made and becoming +costume until her glance rested on her own shoulder and paused. Then +she looked up at Mrs. Orton-Wells. The eyes of Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss +Susan H. Croft, and Miss Gladys Orton-Wells had, by some strange power +of magnetism, followed the path of Emma's eyes. They finished just one +second behind her, so that when she raised her eyes it was to encounter +theirs. + +"I have explained," retorted Mrs. Orton-Wells, tartly, in reply to +nothing, seemingly, "that our problem is with the factory girl. She +represents a distinct and separate class." + +Emma McChesney Buck nodded: + +"I understand. Our girls are very young--eighteen, twenty, twenty-two. +At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments haven't the strong +appeal that you might think they have." + +"They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Maybe," said Emma Buck gently. "But to me it seems just as reasonable +to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear pink-and-white +blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to bear sober russets in +the autumn." + +Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly. + +"Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss +Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?" + +Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells. Gladys was wearing black, and black +did not become her. It made her creamy skin sallow. Her suit was +severely tailored, and her hat was small and harshly outlined, and her +hair was drawn back from her face. All this, in spite of the fact that +Miss Orton-Wells was of the limp and fragile type, which demands +ruffles, fluffiness, flowing lines and frou-frou. Emma's glance at the +suppressed Gladys was as fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to +bring her to a decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk. + +"I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in our +shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak. If she can +convince the girls that a--er--fixed idea in cut, color, and style is +the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly willing that +they be convinced." + +Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer, + +"Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?" + +Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat bobbed +and dipped to Emma. The austere Miss Susan H. Croft unbent in a +nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells remained silent, +thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on Emma's face. + +A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office door. +Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, red-cheeked woman who +entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair with work-roughened fingers. + +Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers. + +"Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf--Mrs. +Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft"--Sophy threw her a keen glance; she +knew that name--"and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the four, Sophy was the +most at ease. + +"Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kumpf. + +The three bowed, but did not commit themselves. Emma, her hand still +on Sophy's, elaborated: + +"Sophy Kumpf has been with the T. A. Buck Company for thirty years. +She could run this business single-handed, if she had to. She knows any +machine in the shop, can cut a pattern, keep books, run the entire +plant if necessary. If there's anything about petticoats that Sophy +doesn't know, it's because it hasn't been invented yet. Sophy was +sixteen when she came to Buck's. I've heard she was the prettiest and +best dressed girl in the shop." + +"Oh, now, Mrs. Buck!" remonstrated Sophy. + +Emma tried to frown as she surveyed Sophy's bright eyes, her rosy +cheeks, her broad bosom, her ample hips--all that made Sophy an object +to comfort and rest the eye. + +"Don't dispute, Sophy. Sophy has educated her children, married them +off, and welcomed their children. She thinks that excuses her for +having been frivolous and extravagant at sixteen. But we know better, +don't we? I'm using you as a horrible example, Sophy." + +Sophy turned affably to the listening three. + +"Don't let her string you," she said, and winked one knowing eye. + +Mrs. Orton-Wells stiffened. Miss Susan H. Croft congealed. But Miss +Gladys Orton-Wells smiled. And then Emma knew she was right. + +"Sophy, who's the prettiest girl in our shop? And the best dressed?" + +"Lily Bernstein," Sophy made prompt answer. + +"Send her in to us, will you? And give her credit for lost time when +she comes back to the shop." + +Sophy, with a last beamingly good-natured smile, withdrew. Five +minutes later, when Lily Bernstein entered the office, Sophy qualified +as a judge of beauty. Lily Bernstein was a tiger-lily--all browns and +golds and creams, all graciousness and warmth and lovely curves. As +she came into the room, Gladys Orton-Wells seemed as bloodless and pale +and ineffectual as a white moth beside a gorgeous tawny butterfly. + +Emma presented the girl as formally as she had Sophy Kumpf. And Lily +Bernstein smiled upon them, and her teeth were as white and even as one +knew they would be before she smiled. Lily had taken off her +shop-apron. Her gown was blue serge, cheap in quality, flawless as to +cut and fit, and incredibly becoming. Above it, her vivid face glowed +like a golden rose. + +"Lily," said Emma, "Miss Orton-Wells is going to speak to the girls +this noon. I thought you might help by telling her whatever she wants +to know about the girls' work and all that, and by making her feel at +home." + +"Well, sure," said Lily, and smiled again her heart-warming smile. +"I'd love to." + +"Miss Orton-Wells," went on Emma smoothly, "wants to speak to the girls +about clothes." + +Lily looked again at Miss Orton-Wells, and she did not mean to be +cruel. Then she looked quickly at Emma, to detect a possible joke. +But Mrs. Buck's face bore no trace of a smile. + +"Clothes!" repeated Lily. And a slow red mounted to Gladys +Orton-Wells' pale face. When Lily went out Sunday afternoons, she might +have passed for a millionaire's daughter if she hadn't been so well +dressed. + +"Suppose you take Miss Orton-Wells into the shop," suggested Emma, "so +that she may have some idea of the size and character of our family +before she speaks to it. How long shall you want to speak?" + +Miss Orton-Wells started nervously, stammered a little, stopped. + +"Oh, ten minutes," said Mrs. Orton-Wells graciously. + +"Five," said Gladys, quickly, and followed Lily Bernstein into the +workroom. + +Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan H. Croft gazed after them. + +"Rather attractive, that girl, in a coarse way," mused Mrs. +Orton-Wells. "If only we can teach them to avoid the cheap and tawdry. +If only we can train them to appreciate the finer things in life. Of +course, their life is peculiar. Their problems are not our problems; +their----" + +"Their problems are just exactly our problems," interrupted Emma +crisply. "They use garlic instead of onion, and they don't bathe as +often as we do; but, then, perhaps we wouldn't either, if we hadn't +tubs and showers so handy." + +In the shop, queer things were happening to Gladys Orton-Wells. At her +entrance into the big workroom, one hundred pairs of eyes had lifted, +dropped, and, in that one look, condemned her hat, suit, blouse, veil +and tout ensemble. When you are on piece-work you squander very little +time gazing at uplift visitors in the wrong kind of clothes. + +Gladys Orton-Wells looked about the big, bright workroom. The noonday +sun streamed in from a dozen great windows. There seemed, somehow, to +be a look of content and capableness about those heads bent so busily +over the stitching. + +"It looks--pleasant," said Gladys Orton-Wells. + +"It ain't bad. Of course it's hard sitting all day. But I'd rather do +that than stand from eight to six behind a counter. And there's good +money in it." + +Gladys Orton-Wells turned wistful eyes on friendly little Lily +Bernstein. + +"I'd like to earn money," she said. "I'd like to work." + +"Well, why don't you?" demanded Lily. + +"Work's all the style this year. They're all doing it. Look at the +Vanderbilts and that Morgan girl, and the whole crowd. These days you +can't tell whether the girl at the machine next to you lives in the +Bronx or on Fifth Avenue." + +"It must be wonderful to earn your own clothes." + +"Believe me," laughed Lily Bernstein, "it ain't so wonderful when +you've had to do it all your life." + +She studied the pale girl before her with brows thoughtfully knit. +Lily had met too many uplifters to be in awe of them. Besides, a +certain warm-hearted friendliness was hers for every one she met. So, +like the child she was, she spoke what was in her mind: + +"Say, listen, dearie. I wouldn't wear black if I was you. And that +plain stuff--it don't suit you. I'm like that, too. There's some +things I can wear and others I look fierce in. I'd like you in one of +them big flat hats and a full skirt like you see in the ads, with lots +of ribbons and tag ends and bows on it. D'you know what I mean?" + +"My mother was a Van Cleve," said Gladys drearily, as though that +explained everything. So it might have, to any but a Lily Bernstein. + +Lily didn't know what a Van Cleve was, but she sensed it as a drawback. + +"Don't you care. Everybody's folks have got something the matter with +'em. Especially when you're a girl. But if I was you, I'd go right +ahead and do what I wanted to." + +In the doorway at the far end of the shop appeared Emma with her two +visitors. Mrs. Orton-Wells stopped and said something to a girl at a +machine, and her very posture and smile reeked of an offensive +kindliness, a condescending patronage. + +Gladys Orton-Wells did a strange thing. She saw her mother coming +toward her. She put one hand on Lily Bernstein's arm and she spoke +hurriedly and in a little gasping voice. + +"Listen! Would you--would you marry a man who hadn't any money to +speak of, and no sort of family, if you loved him, even if your mother +wouldn't--wouldn't----" + +"Would I! Say, you go out to-morrow morning and buy yourself one of +them floppy hats and a lace waist over flesh-colored chiffon and get +married in it. Don't get it white, with your coloring. Get it kind of +cream. You're so grand and thin, this year's things will look lovely +on you." + +A bell shrilled somewhere in the shop. A hundred machines stopped +their whirring. A hundred heads came up with a sigh of relief. Chairs +were pushed back, aprons unbuttoned. + +Emma McChesney Buck stepped forward and raised a hand for attention. +The noise of a hundred tongues was stilled. + +"Girls, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells is going to speak to you for five +minutes on the subject of dress. Will you give her your attention, +please. The five minutes will be added to your noon hour." + +Gladys Orton-Wells looked down at her hands for one terrified moment, +then she threw her head up bravely. There was no lack of color in her +cheeks now. She stepped to the middle of the room. + +"What I have to say won't take five minutes," she said, in her clear, +well-bred tones. + +"You all dress so smartly, and I'm such a dowd, I just want to ask you +whether you think I ought to get blue, or that new shade of gray for a +traveling-suit." + +And the shop, hardened to the eccentricities of noonday speakers, made +composed and ready answer: + +"Oh, get blue; it's always good." + +"Thank you," laughed Gladys Orton-Wells, and was off down the hall and +away, with never a backward glance at her gasping and outraged mother. + +Emma McChesney Buck took Lily Bernstein's soft cheek between thumb and +forefinger and pinched it ever so fondly. + +"I knew you'd do it, Judy O'Grady," she said. + +"Judy O'Who?" + +"O'Grady--a lady famous in history." + +"Oh, now, quit your kiddin', Mrs. Buck!" said Lily Bernstein. + + + +VII + +AN ETUDE FOR EMMA + +If you listen long enough, and earnestly enough, and with ear +sufficiently attuned to the music of this sphere there will come to you +this reward: The violins and oboes and 'cellos and brasses of humanity +which seemed all at variance with each other will unite as one +instrument; seeming discords and dissonances will blend into harmony, +and the wail and blare and thrum of humanity's orchestra will sound in +your ear the sublime melody of that great symphony called Life. + +In her sunny little private office on the twelfth floor of the great +loft-building that housed the T. A. Buck Company, Emma McChesney Buck +sat listening to the street-sounds that were wafted to her, mellowed by +height and distance. The noises, taken separately, were the +nerve-racking sounds common to a busy down-town New York cross-street. +By the time they reached the little office on the twelfth floor, they +were softened, mellowed, debrutalized, welded into a weird choirlike +chant first high, then low, rising, swelling, dying away, rising again +to a dull roar, with now and then vast undertones like the rumbling of +a cathedral pipe-organ. Emma knew that the high, clear tenor note was +the shrill cry of the lame "newsie" at the corner of Sixth Avenue and +Twenty-sixth Street. Those deep, thunderous bass notes were the +combined reverberation of nearby "L" trains, distant subway and +clanging surface cars. That sharp staccato was a motorman clanging his +bell of warning. These things she knew. But she liked, nevertheless, +to shut her eyes for a moment in the midst of her busy day and listen +to the chant of the city as it came up to her, subdued, softened, +strangely beautified. The sound saddened even while it filled her with +a certain exaltation. We have no one word for that sensation. The +German (there's a language!) has it--Weltschmerz. + +As distance softened the harsh sounds to her ears, so time and +experience had given her a perspective on life itself. She saw it, not +as a series of incidents, pleasant and unpleasant, but as a great +universal scheme too mighty to comprehend--a scheme that always worked +itself out in some miraculous way. + +She had had a singularly full life, had Emma McChesney Buck. A life +replete with work, leavened by sorrows, sweetened with happiness. +These ingredients make for tolerance. She saw, for example, how the +capable, modern staff in the main business office had forged ahead of +old Pop Henderson. Pop Henderson had been head bookkeeper for years. +But the pen in his trembling hand made queer spidery marks in the +ledgers now, and his figure seven was very likely to look like a +drunken letter "z." The great bulk of his work was done by the +capable, comely Miss Kelly who could juggle figures like a Cinquevalli. +His shaking, blue-veined yellow hand was no match for Miss Kelly's +cool, firm fingers. But he stayed on at Buck's, and no one dreamed of +insulting him with talk of a pension, least of all Emma. She saw the +work-worn pathetic old man not only as a figure but as a symbol. + +Jock McChesney, very young, very handsome, very successful, coming on +to New York from Chicago to be married in June, found his mother +wrapped in this contemplative calm. Now, Emma McChesney Buck, mother +of an about-to-be-married son, was also surprisingly young and +astonishingly handsome and highly successful. Jock, in a lucid moment +the day before his wedding, took occasion to comment rather resentfully +on his mother's attitude. + +"It seems to me," he said gloomily, "that for a mother whose only son +is about to be handed over to what the writers call the other woman, +you're pretty resigned, not to say cheerful." + +Emma glanced up at him as he stood there, so tall and straight and +altogether good to look at, and the glow of love and pride in her eyes +belied the lightness of her words. + +"I know it," she said, with mock seriousness, "and it worries me. I +can't imagine why I fail to feel those pangs that mothers are supposed +to suffer at this time. I ought to rend my garments and beat my +breast, but I can't help thinking of what a stunning girl Grace Galt +is, and what a brain she has, and how lucky you are to get her. Any +girl--with the future that girl had in the advertising field--who'll +give up four thousand a year and her independence to marry a man does +it for love, let me tell you. If anybody knows you better than your +mother, son, I'd hate to know who it is. And if anybody loves you more +than your mother--well, we needn't go into that, because it would have +to be hypothetical, anyway. You see, Jock, I've loved you so long and +so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and I love +you, not in spite of them but because of them. + +"Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm not +perfect, but a fellow----" + +"Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when she +discovers that you never close a closet door! When I contemplate her +emotions on hearing your howl at finding one seed in your orange juice +at breakfast! When she learns of your secret and unholy passion for +neckties that have a dash of red in 'em, and how you have to be +restrained by force from----" + +With a simulated roar of rage, Jock McChesney fell upon his mother with +a series of bear-hugs that left her flushed, panting, limp, but +bright-eyed. + +It was to her husband that Emma revealed the real source of her Spartan +calm. The wedding was over. There had been a quiet little +celebration, after which Jock McChesney had gone West with his very +lovely young wife. Emma had kissed her very tenderly, very soberly +after the brief ceremony. "Mrs. McChesney," she had said, and her +voice shook ever so little; "Mrs. Jock McChesney!" And the new Mrs. +McChesney, a most astonishingly intuitive young woman indeed, had +understood. + +T. A. Buck, being a man, puzzled over it a little. That night, when +Emma had reached the kimono and hair-brushing stage, he ventured to +speak his wonderment. + +"D'you know, Emma, you were about the calmest and most serene mother +that I ever did see at a son's wedding. Of course I didn't expect you +to have hysterics, or anything like that. I've always said that, when +it came to repose and self-control, you could make the German Empress +look like a hoyden. But I always thought that, at such times, a mother +viewed her new daughter-in-law as a rival, that the very sight of her +filled her with a jealous rage like that of a tigress whose cub is +taken from her. I must say you were so smiling and urbane that I +thought it was almost uncomplimentary to the young couple. You didn't +even weep, you unnatural woman!" + +Emma, seated before her dressing-table, stopped brushing her hair and +sat silent a moment, looking down with unseeing eyes at the brush in +her hand. + +"I know it, T. A. Would you like to have me tell you why?" + +He came over to her then and ran a tender hand down the length of her +bright hair. Then he kissed the top of her head. This satisfactory +performance he capped by saying: + +"I think I know why. It's because the minister hesitated a minute and +looked from you to Grace and back again, not knowing which was the +bride. The way you looked in that dress, Emma, was enough to reconcile +any woman to losing her entire family." + +"T. A., you do say the nicest things to me." + +"Like 'em, Emma?" + +"Like 'em? You know perfectly well that you never can offend me by +making me compliments like that. I not only like them; I actually +believe them!" + +"That's because I mean them, Emma. Now, out with that reason!" + +Emma stood up then and put her hands on his shoulders. But she was not +looking at him. She was gazing past him, her eyes dreamy, +contemplative. + +"I don't know whether I'll be able to explain to you just how I feel +about it. I'll probably make a mess of it. But I'll try. You see, +dear, it's just this way: Two years ago--a year ago, even--I might +have felt just that sensation of personal resentment and loss. But +somehow, lately, I've been looking at life through--how shall I put +it?--through seven-league glasses. I used to see life in its relation +to me and mine. Now I see it in terms of my relation to it. Do you +get me? I was the soloist, and the world my orchestral accompaniment. +Lately, I've been content just to step back with the other instruments +and let my little share go to make up a more perfect whole. In those +years, long before I met you, when Jock was all I had in the world, I +worked and fought and saved that he might have the proper start, the +proper training, and environment. And I did succeed in giving him +those things. Well, as I looked at him there to-day I saw him, not as +my son, my property that was going out of my control into the hands of +another woman, but as a link in the great chain that I had helped to +forge--a link as strong and sound and perfect as I could make it. I +saw him, not as my boy, Jock McChesney, but as a unit. When I am gone +I shall still live in him, and he in turn will live in his children. +There! I've muddled it--haven't I?--as I said I would. But I think"-- +And she looked into her husband's glowing eyes.--"No; I'm sure you +understand. And when I die, T. A.----" + +"You, Emma!" And he held her close, and then held her off to look at +her through quizzical, appreciative eyes. "Why, girl, I can't imagine +you doing anything so passive." + + +In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney Buck as +she worked and played and constructed, and helped others to work and +play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. Buck. She did not +seem a woman who was looking at life objectively. As she went about +her home in the evening, or the office, the workroom, or the showrooms +during the day, adjusting this, arranging that, smoothing out snarls, +solving problems of business or household, she was very much alive, +very vital, very personal, very electric. In that year there came to +her many letters from Jock and Grace--happy letters, all of them, some +with an undertone of great seriousness, as is fitting when two people +are readjusting their lives. Then, in spring, came the news of the +baby. The telegram came to Emma as she sat in her office near the +close of a busy day. As she read it and reread it, the slip of paper +became a misty yellow with vague lines of blue dancing about on it; +then it became a blur of nothing in particular, as Emma's tears fell on +it in a little shower of joy and pride and wonder at the eternal +miracle. + +Then she dried her eyes, mopped the telegram and her lace jabot +impartially, went across the hall and opened the door marked "T. A. +BUCK." + +T. A. looked up from his desk, smiled, held out a hand. + +"Girl or boy?" + +"Girl, of course," said Emma tremulously, "and her name is Emma +McChesney." + +T. A. stood up and put an arm about his wife's shoulders. + +"Lean on me, grandma," he said. + +"Fiend!" retorted Emma, and reread the telegram happily. She folded it +then, with a pensive sigh, "I hope she'll look like Grace. But with +Jock's eyes. They were wasted in a man. At any rate, she ought to be +a raving, tearing beauty with that father and mother." + +"What about her grandmother, when it comes to looks! Yes, and think of +the brain she'll have," Buck reminded her excitedly. "Great Scott! +With a grandmother who has made the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat a +household word, and a mother who was the cleverest woman advertising +copy-writer in New York, this young lady ought to be a composite Hetty +Green, Madame de Stael, Hypatia, and Emma McChesney Buck. She'll be a +lady wizard of finance or a----" + +"She'll be nothing of the kind," Emma disputed calmly. "That child +will be a throwback. The third generation generally is. With a +militant mother and a grandmother such as that child has, she'll just +naturally be a clinging vine. She'll be a reversion to type. She'll +be the kind who'll make eyes and wear pale blue and be crazy about new +embroidery-stitches. Just mark my words, T. A." + +Buck had a brilliant idea. + +"Why don't you pack a bag and run over to Chicago for a few days and +see this marvel of the age?" + +But Emma shook her head. + +"Not now, T. A. Later. Let the delicate machinery of that new +household adjust itself and begin to run smoothly and sweetly again. +Anyone who might come in now--even Jock's mother--would be only an +outsider." + +So she waited very patiently and considerately. There was much to +occupy her mind that spring. Business was unexpectedly and +gratifyingly good. Then, too, one of their pet dreams was being +realized; they were to have their own house in the country, at +Westchester. Together they had pored over the plans. It was to be a +house of wide, spacious verandas, of fireplaces, of bookshelves, of +great, bright windows, and white enamel and cheerful chintz. By the +end of May it was finished, furnished, and complete. At which a +surprising thing happened; and yet, not so surprising. A demon of +restlessness seized Emma McChesney Buck. It had been a busy, happy +winter, filled with work. Now that it was finished, there came upon +Emma and Buck that unconscious and quite natural irritation which +follows a long winter spent together by two people, no matter how much +in harmony. Emma pulled herself up now and then, horrified to find a +rasping note of impatience in her voice. Buck found himself, once or +twice, fairly caught in a little whirlpool of ill temper of his own +making. These conditions they discovered almost simultaneously. And +like the comrades they were, they talked it over and came to a sensible +understanding. + +"We're a bit ragged and saw-edged," said Emma. "We're getting on each +other's nerves. What we need is a vacation from each other. This +morning I found myself on the verge of snapping at you. At you! +Imagine, T. A.!" + +Whereupon Buck came forward with his confession. + +"It's a couple of late cases of spring fever. You've been tied to this +office all winter. So've I. We need a change. You've had too much +petticoats, too much husband, too much cutting room and sales-room and +rush orders and business generally. Too much Featherloom and not +enough foolishness." He came over and put a gentle hand on his wife's +shoulder, a thing strictly against the rules during business hours. +And Emma not only permitted it but reached over and covered his hand +with her own. "You're tired, and you're a wee bit nervous; so g'wan," +said T. A., ever so gently, and kissed his wife, "g'wan; get out of +here!" + +And Emma got. + +She went, not to the mountains or the seashore but with her face to the +west. In her trunks were tiny garments--garments pink-ribboned, +blue-ribboned, things embroidered and scalloped and hemstitched and +hand-made and lacy. She went looking less grandmotherly than ever in +her smart, blue tailor suit, her rakish hat, her quietly correct +gloves, and slim shoes and softly becoming jabot. Her husband had got +her a compartment, had laden her down with books, magazines, fruit, +flowers, candy. Five minutes before the train pulled out, Emma looked +about the little room and sighed, even while she smiled. + +"You're an extravagant boy, T. A. I look as if I were equipped for a +dash to the pole instead of an eighteen-hour run to Chicago. But I +love you for it. I suppose I ought to be ashamed to confess how I like +having a whole compartment just for myself. You see, a compartment +always will spell luxury to me. There were all those years on the +road, you know, when I often considered myself in luck to get an upper +on a local of a branch line that threw you around in your berth like a +bean in a tin can every time the engineer stopped or started." + +Buck looked at his watch, then stooped in farewell. Quite suddenly +they did not want to part. They had grown curiously used to each +other, these two. Emma found herself clinging to this man with the +tender eyes, and Buck held her close, regardless of train-schedules. +Emma rushed him to the platform and watched him, wide-eyed, as he swung +off the slowly moving train. + +"Come on along!" she called, almost tearfully. + +Buck looked up at her. At her trim, erect figure, at her clear +youthful coloring, at the brightness of her eye. + +"If you want to get a reputation for comedy," he laughed, "tell +somebody on that train that you're going to visit your granddaughter." + +Jock met her at the station in Chicago and drove her home in a very +dapper and glittering black runabout. + +"Grace wanted to come down," he explained, as they sped along, "but +they're changing the baby's food or something, and she didn't want to +leave. You know those nurses." Emma felt a curious little pang. This +was her boy, her baby, talking about his baby and nurses. She had a +sense of unreality. He turned to her with shining eyes. "That's a +stunning get-up, Blonde. Honestly, you're a wiz, mother. Grace has told +all her friends that you're coming, and their mothers are going to +call. But, good Lord, you look like my younger sister, on the square +you do!" + +The apartment reached, it seemed to Emma that she floated across the +walk and up the stairs, so eagerly did her heart cry out for a glimpse +of this little being who was flesh of her flesh. Grace, a little pale +but more beautiful than ever, met them at the door. Her arms went +about Emma's neck. Then she stood her handsome mother-in-law off and +gazed at her. + +"You wonder! How lovely you look! Good heavens, are they wearing that +kind of hat in New York! And those collars! I haven't seen a thing +like 'em here. 'East is east and West is west and----'" + +"Where's that child?" demanded Emma McChesney Buck. "Where's my baby?" + +"Sh-sh-sh-sh!" came in a sibilant duet from Grace and Jock. "Not now. +She's sleeping. We were up with her for three hours last night. It +was the new food. She's not used to it yet." + +"But, you foolish children, can't I peek at her?" + +"Oh, dear, no!" said Grace hastily. "We never go into her room when +she's asleep. This is your room, mother dear. And just as soon as she +wakes up--this is your bath--you'll want to freshen up. Dear me; who +could have hung the baby's little shirt here? The nurse, I suppose. +If I don't attend to every little thing----" + +Emma took off her hat and smoothed her hair with light, deft fingers. +She turned a smiling face toward Jock and Grace standing there in the +doorway. + +"Now don't bother, dear. If you knew how I love having that little +shirt to look at! And I've such things in my trunk! Wait till you see +them." + +So she possessed her soul in patience for one hour, two hours. At the +end of the second hour, a little wail went up. Grace vanished down the +hall. Emma, her heart beating very fast, followed her. A moment later +she was bending over a very pink morsel with very blue eyes and she was +saying, over and over in a rapture of delightful idiocy: + +"Say hello to your gran-muzzer, yes her is! Say, hello, granny!" And +her longing arms reached down to take up her namesake. + +"Not now!" Grace said hastily. "We never play with her just before +feeding-time. We find that it excites her, and that's bad for her +digestion." + +"Dear me!" marveled Emma. "I don't remember worrying about Jock's +digestion when he was two and a half months old!" + +It was thus that Emma McChesney Buck, for many years accustomed to +leadership, learned to follow humbly and in silence. She had always +been the orbit about which her world revolved. Years of brilliant +success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, or made her +offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a certain +self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of deference from +others. Now she was the humblest of the satellites revolving about +this sun of the household. She learned to tiptoe when small Emma +McChesney was sleeping. She learned that the modern mother does not +approve of the holding of a child in one's arms, no matter how those +arms might be aching to feel the frail weight of the soft, sweet body. +She who had brought a child into the world, who had had to train that +child alone, had raised him single-handed, had educated him, denied +herself for him, made a man of him, now found herself all ignorant of +twentieth century child-raising methods. She learned strange things +about barley-water and formulae and units and olive oil, and orange +juice and ounces and farina, and bath-thermometers and blue-and-white +striped nurses who view grandmothers with a coldly disapproving and +pitying eye. + +She watched the bathing-process for the first time with wonder as frank +as it was unfeigned. + +"And I thought I was a modern woman!" she marveled. "When I used to +bathe Jock I tested the temperature of the water with my elbow; and I +know my mother used to test my bath-water when I was a baby by putting +me into it. She used to say that if I turned blue she knew the water +was too cold, and if I turned red she knew it was too hot." + +"Humph!" snorted the blue-and-white striped nurse, and rightly. + +"Oh, I don't say that your method isn't the proper one," Emma hastened +to say humbly, and watched Grace scrutinize the bath-thermometer with +critical eye. + +In the days that followed, there came calling the mothers of Grace's +young-women friends, as Jock had predicted. Charming elderly women, +most of them, all of them gracious and friendly with that generous +friendliness which is of the West. But each fell into one of two +classes--the placid, black-silk, rather vague woman of middle age, +whose face has the blank look of the sheltered woman and who wrinkles +early from sheer lack of sufficient activity or vital interest in life; +and the wiry, well-dressed, assertive type who talked about her club +work and her charities, her voice always taking the rising inflection +at the end of a sentence, as though addressing a meeting. When they +met Emma, it was always with a little startled look of surprise, +followed by something that bordered on disapproval. Emma, the keenly +observant, watching them, felt vaguely uncomfortable. She tried to be +politely interested in what they had to say, but she found her thoughts +straying a thousand miles away to the man whom she loved and who loved +her, to the big, busy factory with its humming machinery and its +capable office staff, to the tasteful, comfortable, spacious house that +she had helped to plan; to all the vital absorbing, fascinating and +constructive interests with which her busy New York life was filled to +overflowing. + +So she looked smilingly at the plump, gray-haired ladies who came +a-calling in their smart black with the softening lace-effect at the +throat, and they looked, smiling politely, too, at this slim, erect, +pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman with the shining golden hair and the +firm, smooth skin, and the alert manner; and in their eyes was that +distrust which lurks in the eyes of a woman as she looks at another +woman of her own age who doesn't show it. + +In the weeks of her stay, Emma managed, little by little, to take the +place of second mother in the household. She had tact and finesse and +cleverness enough even for that herculean feat. Grace's pale cheeks and +last year's wardrobe made her firm in her stand. + +"Grace," she said, one day, "listen to me: I want you to get some +clothes--a lot of them, and foolish ones, all of them. Babies are all +very well, but husbands have some slight right to consideration. The +clock, for you, is an instrument devised to cut up the day and night +into your baby's eating- and sleeping-periods. I want you to get some +floppy hats with roses on 'em, and dresses with ruffles and sashes. +I'll stay home and guard your child from vandals and ogres. Scat!" + +Her stay lengthened to four weeks, five weeks, six. She had the +satisfaction of seeing the roses blooming in Grace's cheeks as well as +in her hats. She learned to efface her own personality that others +might shine who had a better right. And she lost some of her own +bright color, a measure of her own buoyancy. In the sixth week she +saw, in her mirror, something that caused her to lean forward, to stare +for one intent moment, then to shrink back, wide-eyed. A little +sunburst, hair-fine but undeniable, was etched delicately about the +corners of her eyes. Fifteen minutes later, she had wired New York +thus: + + Home Friday. Do you still love me? EMMA. + + +When she left, little Emma McChesney was sleeping, by a curious +coincidence, as she had been when Emma arrived, so that she could not +have the satisfaction of a last pressure of the lips against the +rose-petal cheek. She had to content herself with listening close to +the door in the vain hope of catching a last sound of the child's +breathing. + +She was laden with fruits and flowers and magazines on her departure, +as she had been when she left New York. But, somehow, these things did +not seem to interest her. After the train had left Chicago's smoky +buildings far behind, she sat very still for a long time, her eyes +shut. She told herself that she felt and looked very old, very tired, +very unlike the Emma McChesney Buck who had left New York a few weeks +before. Then she thought of T. A., and her eyes unclosed and she +smiled. By the time the train had reached Cleveland the little lines +seemed miraculously to have disappeared, somehow, from about her eyes. +When they left the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station she was +a creature transformed. And when the train rolled into the great +down-town shed, Emma was herself again, bright-eyed, alert, vibrating +energy. + +There was no searching, no hesitation. Her eyes met his, and his eyes +found hers with a quite natural magnetism. + +"Oh, T. A., my dear, my dear! I didn't know you were so handsome! And +how beautiful New York is! Tell me: Have I grown old? Have I?" + +T. A. bundled her into a taxi and gazed at her in some alarm. + +"You! Old! What put that nonsense into your head? You're tired, +dear. We'll go home, and you'll have a good rest, and a quiet +evening----" + +"Rest!" echoed Emma, and sat up very straight, her cheeks pink. "Quiet +evening! T. A. Buck, listen to me. I've had nothing but rest and +quiet evenings for six weeks. I feel a million years old. One more +day of being a grandmother and I should have died! Do you know what I'm +going to do? I'm going to stop at Fifth Avenue this minute and buy a +hat that's a thousand times too young for me, and you're going with me +to tell me that it isn't. And then you'll take me somewhere to +dinner--a place with music and pink shades. And then I want to see a +wicked play, preferably with a runway through the center aisle for the +chorus. + +And then I want to go somewhere and dance! Get that, dear? Dance! +Tell me, T. A.--tell me the truth: Do you think I'm old, and faded, +and wistful and grandmotherly?" + +"I think," said T. A. Buck, "that you're the most beautiful, the most +wonderful, the most adorable woman in the world, and the more foolish +your new hat is and the later we dance the better I'll like it. It has +been awful without you, Emma." + +Emma closed her eyes and there came from the depths of her heart a +great sigh of relief, and comfort and gratification. + +"Oh, T. A., my dear, it's all very well to drown your identity in the +music of the orchestra, but there's nothing equal to the soul-filling +satisfaction that you get in solo work." + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Emma McChesney & Co., by Edna Ferber + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA MCCHESNEY & CO. *** + +***** This file should be named 453.txt or 453.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/453/ + +Produced by Charles Keller. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Scanned by Charles Keller with OmniPage Professional OCR software +donated by Caere Corporation, 1-800-535-7226. Contact Mike Lough +<Mikel@caere.com> + + + + + + +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. + +by Edna Ferber + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I. BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES +II. THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY +III. A CLOSER CORPORATION +IV. BLUE SERGE +V. "HOOPS, MY DEAR!" +VI. SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN +VII. AN ETUDE FOR EMMA + + + + + +EMMA McCHESNEY & CO. + +I + +BROADWAY TO BUENOS AIRES + +The door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY" was closed. T. A. Buck, +president of the Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, coming gaily +down the hall, stopped before it, dismayed, as one who, with a +spicy bit of news at his tongue's end, is met with rebuff before +the first syllable is voiced. That closed door meant: "Busy. +Keep out." + +"She'll be reading a letter," T. A. Buck told himself grimly. +Then he turned the knob and entered his partner's office. + +Mrs. Emma McChesney was reading a letter. More than that, she +was poring over it so that, at the interruption, she glanced up +in a maddeningly half-cocked manner which conveyed the impression +that, while her physical eye beheld the intruder, her mental eye +was still on the letter. + +"I knew it," said T. A. Buck morosely. + +Emma McChesney put down the letter and smiled. + +"Sit down--now that you're in. And if you expect me to say, +`Knew what?' you're doomed to disappointment." + +T. A. Buck remained standing, both gloved hands clasping his +walking stick on which he leaned. + +"Every time I come into this office, you're reading the latest +scrawl from your son. One would think Jock's letters were +deathless masterpieces. I believe you read them at half-hour +intervals all week, and on Sunday get 'em all out and play +solitaire with them." + +Emma McChesney's smile widened frankly to a grin. + +"You make me feel like a cash-girl who's been caught flirting +with the elevator starter. Have I been neglecting business?" + +"Business? No; you've been neglecting me!" + +"Now, T. A., you've just come from the tailor's, and I suppose +it didn't fit in the back." + +"It isn't that," interrupted Buck, "and you know it. Look +here! That day Jock went away and we came back to the office, +and you said----" + +"I know I said it, T. A., but don't remind me of it. That +wasn't a fair test. I had just seen Jock leave me to take his +own place in the world. You know that my day began and ended +with him. He was my reason for everything. When I saw him off +for Chicago that day, and knew he was going there to stay, it +seemed a million miles from New York. I was blue and lonely and +heart-sick. If the office-boy had thrown a kind word to me I'd +have broken down and wept on his shoulder." + +Buck, still standing, looked down between narrowed lids at his +business partner. + +"Emma McChesney," he said steadily, "do you mean that?" + +Mrs. McChesney, the straightforward, looked up, looked down, +fiddled with the letter in her hand. + +"Well--practically yes--that is--I thought, now that you're +going to the mountains for a month, it might give me a chance to +think--to----" + +"And d'you know what I'll do meanwhile, out of revenge on the +sex? I've just ordered three suits of white flannel, and I shall +break every feminine heart in the camp, regardless-- Oh, say, +that's what I came in to tell you! Guess whom I saw at the +tailor's?" + +"Well, Mr. Bones, whom did you, and so forth?" + +"Fat Ed Meyers. I just glimpsed him in one of the +fitting-rooms. And they were draping him in white." + +Emma McChesney sat up with a jerk. + +"Are you sure?" + +"Sure? There's only one figure like that. He had the thing on +and was surveying himself in the mirror--or as much of himself as +could be seen in one ordinary mirror. In that white suit, with +his red face above it, he looked like those pictures you see +labeled, `Sunrise on Snow-covered Mountain.' " + +"Did he see----" + +"He dodged when he saw me. Actually! At least, he seems to +have the decency to be ashamed of the deal he gave us when he +left us flat in the thick of his Middle Western trip and went +back to the Sans-Silk Skirt Company. I wanted him to know I had +seen him. As I passed, I said, `You'll mow 'em down in those +clothes, Meyers.' " Buck sat down in his leisurely fashion, and +laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't you see him, Emma, at +the seashore?" + +But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set, +unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She +was staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond +him. There was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of +complete detachment, which always enveloped her when her +lightning mind was leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the +slower thinking. + +"What's your tailor's name?" + +"Name? Trotter. Why?" + +Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish. + +"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double- t-e-r. Say I want to +speak to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk +Skirt Company." + +T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what +in the name of----" + +"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one +of my hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through +the same territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk +Skirt people. It didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed +hadn't the decency to be ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter +how raw. And let me tell you, T. A.: If he dodged when he saw +you it wasn't because he was ashamed of having played us +low-down. He was contemplating playing lower-down. Of course, I +may be----" + +She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, +her calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones: + +"Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure +that the grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. +What? Oh, you say you assured him it was the weight of flannel +you always advise for South America. And you said they'd be +ready when? Next week? Thank you." + +She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. +Her cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood +up, her breath coming rather quickly. + +"Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down +to South America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been +planning to do for the last six months. You remember I spoke of +it. You pooh-poohed the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of +dollars to the Sans-Silk people if they get it. But they won't +get it." + +T. A. Buck stood up suddenly. + +"Look here, Emma! If you're----" + +"I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has +been--well, you know what it's been for the last two years. The +South American boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes +are promised for next week. That means he isn't sailing until +week after next. But the next boat sails in three days." She +picked up a piece of paper from her desk and tossed it into +Buck's hand. "That's the letter I was reading when you came in. +No; don't read it. Let me tell you instead." + +Buck threw cane, hat, gloves, and letter on the broad desk, +thrust his hands into his pockets, and prepared for argument. +But he got only as far as: "But I won't allow it! You couldn't +get away in three days, at any rate. And at the end of two weeks +you'll have come to your senses, and besides----" + +"T. A., I don't mean to be rude. But here are your hat and +stick and gloves. It's going to take me just forty-eight hours +to mobilize." + +"But, Emma, even if you do get in ahead of Meyers, it's an +insane idea. A woman can't go down there alone. It isn't safe. +It's bad enough for a man to tackle it. Besides, we're holding +our own." + +"That's just it. When a doctor issues a bulletin to the effect +that the patient is holding his own, you may have noticed that +the relatives always begin to gather." + +"It's a bubble, this South American idea. Oshkosh and Southport +and Altoona money has always been good enough for us. If we can +keep that trade, we ought to be thankful." + +Emma McChesney pushed her hair back from her forehead with one +gesture and patted it into place with another. Those two +gestures, to one who knew her, meant loss of composure for one +instant, followed by the quick regaining of it the next. + +"Let's not argue about it now. Suppose we wait until +to-morrow--when it's too late. I am thankful for the trade we've +got. But I don't want to be narrow about it. My thanking +capacity is such that I can stretch it out to cover some things +we haven't got yet. I've been reading up on South America." + +"Reading!" put in Buck hotly. "What actual first-hand +information can you get about a country from books?" + +"Well, then, I haven't only been reading. I've been talking to +everyone I could lay my hands on who has been down there and who +knows. Those South American women love dress--especially the +Argentines. And do you know what they've been wearing? +Petticoats made in England! You know what that means. An +English woman chooses a petticoat like she does a husband--for +life. It isn't only a garment. It's a shelter. It's built like +a tent. If once I can introduce the T. A. Buck Featherloom +petticoat and knickerbocker into sunny South America, they'll use +those English and German petticoats for linoleum floor-coverings. +Heaven knows they'll fit the floor better than the human form!" + +But Buck was unsmiling. The muscles of his jaw were tense. + +"I won't let you go. Understand that! I won't allow it!" + +"Tut, tut, T. A.! What is this? Cave-man stuff?" + +"Emma, I tell you it's dangerous. It isn't worth the risk, no +matter what it brings us." + +Emma McChesney struck an attitude, hand on heart. " `Heaven +will protect the working girrul,' " she sang. + +Buck grabbed his hat. + +"I'm going to wire Jock." + +"All right! That'll save me fifty cents. Do you know what +he'll wire back? `Go to it. Get the tango on its native +tairn'--or words to that effect." + +"Emma, use a little logic and common sense!" + +There was a note in Buck's voice that brought a quick response +from Mrs. McChesney. She dropped her little air of gayety. The +pain in his voice, and the hurt in his eyes, and the pleading in +his whole attitude banished the smile from her face. It had not +been much of a smile, anyway. T. A. knew her genuine smiles well +enough to recognize a counterfeit at sight. And Emma McChesney +knew that he knew. She came over and laid a hand lightly on his +arm. + +"T. A., I don't know anything about logic. It is a hot-house +plant. But common sense is a field flower, and I've gathered +whole bunches of it in my years of business experience. I'm not +going down to South America for a lark. I'm going because the +time is ripe to go. I'm going because the future of our business +needs it. I'm going because it's a job to be handled by the most +experienced salesman on our staff. And I'm just that. I say it +because it's true. Your father, T. A., used to see things +straighter and farther than any business man I ever knew. Since +his death made me a partner in this firm, I find myself, when I'm +troubled or puzzled, trying to see a situation as he'd see it if +he were alive. It's like having an expert stand back of you in a +game of cards, showing you the next move. That's the way I'm +playing this hand. And I think we're going to take most of the +tricks away from Fat Ed Meyers." + +T. A. Buck's eyes traveled from Emma McChesney's earnest, glowing +face to the hand that rested on his arm. He reached over and +gently covered that hand with his own. + +"I suppose you must be right, little woman. You always are. +Dad was the founder of this business. It was the pride of his +life. That word `founder' has two meanings. I never want to be +responsible for its second meaning in connection with this +concern." + +"You never will be, T. A." + +"Not with you at the helm." He smiled rather sadly. "I'm a +good, ordinary, common seaman. But you've got imagination, and +foresight, and nerve, and daring, and that's the stuff that +admirals are made of." + +"Bless you, T. A.! I knew you'd see the thing as I do after the +first shock was over. It has always been nip and tuck between +the Sans-Silk Company and us. You gave me the hint that showed +me their plans. Now help me follow it up." + +Buck picked up his hat, squared his shoulders and fumbled with +his gloves like a bashful schoolboy. + +"You--you couldn't kill two birds with one stone on this trip, +could you, Mrs. Mack?" + +Mrs. McChesney, back at her desk again, threw him an inquiring +glance over her shoulder. + +"You might make it a combination honeymoon and Featherloom +expedition." + +"T. A. Buck!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. Then, as Buck dodged +for the door: "Just for that, I'm going to break this to you. +You know that I intended to handle the Middle Western territory +for one trip, or until we could get a man to take Fat Ed Meyers' +place." + +"Well?" said Buck apprehensively. + +"I leave in three days. Goodness knows how long I'll be gone! +A business deal down there is a ceremony. And--you won't need +any white-flannel clothes in Rock Island, Illinois." + +Buck, aghast, faced her from the doorway. + +"You mean, I----" + +"Just that," smiled Emma McChesney pleasantly. And pressed the +button that summoned the stenographer. + +In the next forty-eight hours, Mrs. McChesney performed a series +of mental and physical calisthenics that would have landed an +ordinary woman in a sanatorium. She cleaned up with the +thoroughness and dispatch of a housewife who, before going to the +seashore, forgets not instructions to the iceman, the milkman, +the janitor, and the maid. She surveyed her territory, behind +and before, as a general studies troops and countryside before +going into battle; she foresaw factory emergencies, dictated +office policies, made sure of staff organization like the +business woman she was. Out in the stock-room, under her +supervision, there was scientifically packed into sample-trunks +and cases a line of Featherloom skirts and knickers calculated to +dazzle Brazil and entrance Argentina. And into her own personal +trunk there went a wardrobe, each article of which was a garment +with a purpose. Emma McChesney knew the value of a smartly +tailored suit in a business argument. + +T. A. Buck canceled his order at the tailor's, made up his own +line for the Middle West, and prepared to storm that prosperous +and important territory for the first time in his business +career. + +The South American boat sailed Saturday afternoon. Saturday +morning found the two partners deep in one of those condensed, +last-minute discussions. Mrs. McChesney opened a desk drawer, +took out a leather-covered pocket notebook, and handed it to +Buck. A tiny smile quivered about her lips. Buck took it, +mystified. + +"Your last diary?" + +"Something much more important. I call it `The Salesman's +Who's Who.' Read it as you ought your Bible." + +"But what?" Buck turned the pages wonderingly. He glanced at +a paragraph, frowned, read it aloud, slowly. + + +"Des Moines, Iowa, Klein & Company. Miss Ella Sweeney, skirt +buyer. Old girl. Skittish. Wants to be entertained. Take her +to dinner and the theater." + + +He looked up, dazed. "Good Lord, what is this? A joke?" + +"Wait until you see Ella; you won't think it's a joke. She'll +buy only your smoothest numbers, ask sixty days' dating, and +expect you to entertain her as you would your rich aunt." + +Buck returned to the little book dazedly. He flipped another +leaf--another. Then he read in a stunned sort of voice: + + +"Sam Bloom, Paris Emporium, Duluth. See Sadie." + + +He closed the book. "Say, see here, Emma, do you mean to----" + +"Sam is the manager," interrupted Mrs. McChesney pleasantly, +"and he thinks he does the buying, but the brains of that +business is a little girl named Sadie Harris. She's a wonder. +Five years from now, if she doesn't marry Sam, she'll be one of +those ten-thousand-a-year foreign buyers. Play your samples up +to Sammy, but quote your prices down to Sadie. Read the next +one, T. A." + +Buck read on, his tone lifeless: + + +"Miss Sharp. Berg Brothers, Omaha. Strictly business. Known +among the trade as the human cactus. Canceled a +ten-thousand-dollar order once because the grateful salesman +called her `girlie.' Stick to skirts." + + +Buck slapped the book smartly against the palm of his hand. + +"Do you mean to tell me that you made this book out for me? Do +you mean to say that I have to cram on this like a kid studying +for exams? That I'll have to cater to the personality of the +person I'm selling to? Why--it's--it's----" + +Emma McChesney nodded calmly. + +"I don't know how this trip of yours is going to affect the +firm's business, T. A. But it's going to be a liberal education +for you. You'll find that you'll need that little book a good +many times before you're through. And while you're following its +advice, do this: forget that your name is Buck, except for +business purposes; forget that your family has always lived in a +brownstone mausoleum in Seventy-second street; forget that you +like your chops done just so, and your wine at such-and-such a +temperature; get close to your trade. They're an awfully human +lot, those Middle Western buyers. Don't chuck them under the +chin, but smile on 'em. And you've got a lovely smile, T. A." + +Buck looked up from the little leather book. And, as he gazed at +Emma McChesney, the smile appeared and justified its praise. + +"I'll have this to comfort me, anyway, Emma. I'll know that +while I'm smirking on the sprightly Miss Sweeney, your face will +be undergoing various agonizing twists in the effort to make +American prices understood by an Argentine who can't speak +anything but Spanish." + +"Maybe I am short on Spanish, but I'm long on Featherlooms. I +may not know a senora from a chili con carne, but I know +Featherlooms from the waistband to the hem." She leaned +forward, dimpling like fourteen instead of forty. "And you've +noticed--haven't you, T. A.?--that I've got an expressive +countenance." + +Buck leaned forward, too. His smile was almost gone. + +"I've noticed a lot of things, Emma McChesney. And if you +persist in deviling me for one more minute, I'm going to mention +a few." + +Emma McChesney surveyed her cleared desk, locked the top drawer +with a snap, and stood up. + +"If you do I'll miss my boat. Just time to make Brooklyn. +Suppose you write 'em." + +That Ed Meyers might know nothing of her sudden plans, she had +kept the trip secret. Besides Buck and the office staff, her son +Jock was the only one who knew. But she found her cabin stocked +like a prima donna's on a farewell tour. There were boxes of +flowers, a package of books, baskets of fruit, piles of +magazines, even a neat little sheaf of telegrams, one from the +faithful bookkeeper, one from the workroom foreman, two from +salesmen long in the firm's employ, two from Jock in Chicago. +She read them, her face glowing. He and Buck had vied with each +other in supplying her with luxuries that would make pleasanter +the twenty-three days of her voyage. + +She looked about the snug cabin, her eyes suddenly misty. Buck +poked his head in at the door. + +"Come on up on deck, Emma; I've only a few minutes left." + +She snatched a pink rose from the box, and together they went on +deck. + +"Just ten minutes," said Buck. He was looking down at her. +"Remember, Emma, nothing that concerns the firm's business, +however big, is half as important as the things that concern you +personally, however small. I realize what this trip will mean to +us, if it pans, and if you can beat Meyers to it. But if +anything should happen to you, why----" + +"Nothing's going to happen, T. A., except that I'll probably +come home with my complexion ruined. I'll feel a great deal more +at home talking pidgin-English to Senor Alvarez in Buenos Aires +than you will talking Featherlooms to Miss Skirt-Buyer in Cedar +Rapids, Iowa. But remember this, T. A.: When you get to +know--really to know--the Sadie Harrises and the Sammy Blochs and +the Ella Sweeneys of this world, you've learned just about all +there is to know about human beings. Quick--the gangplank! +Goodby, T. A." + +The dock reached, he gazed up at her as she leaned far over the +railing. He made a megaphone of his hands. + +"I feel like an old maid who's staying home with her knitting," +he called. + +The boat began to move. Emma McChesney passed a quick hand over +her eyes. + +"Don't drop any stitches, T. A." With unerring aim she flung +the big pink rose straight at him. + +She went about arranging her affairs on the boat like the +business woman that she was. First she made her cabin shipshape. +She placed nearest at hand the books on South America, and the +Spanish-American pocket interpreter. She located her deck chair, +and her seat in the dining-room. Then, quietly, unobtrusively, +and guided by those years spent in meeting men and women face to +face in business, she took thorough, conscientious mental stock +of those others who were to be her fellow travelers for twenty- +three days. + +For the most part, the first-class passengers were men. There +were American business men--salesmen, some of them, promoters +others, or representatives of big syndicates shrewd, alert, well +dressed, smooth shaven. Emma McChesney knew that she would gain +valuable information from many of them before the trip was over. +She sighed a little regretfully as she thought of those +smoking-room talks--those intimate, tobacco-mellowed business +talks from which she would be barred by her sex. + +There were two engineers, one British, one American, both very +intelligent-looking, both inclined to taciturnity, as is often +the case in men of their profession. They walked a good deal, +and smoked nut-brown, evil-smelling pipes, and stared +unblinkingly across the water. + +There were Argentines--whole families of them--Brazilians, too. +The fat, bejeweled Brazilian men eyed Emma McChesney with open +approval, even talked to her, leering objectionably. Emma +McChesney refused to be annoyed. Her ten years on the road +served her in good stead now. + +But most absorbing of all to Emma McChesney, watching quietly +over her book or magazine, was a tall, erect, white-bearded +Argentine who, with his family, occupied chairs near hers. His +name had struck her with the sound of familiarity when she read +it on the passenger list. She had asked the deck-steward to +point out the name's owner. "Pages," she repeated to herself, +worriedly, "Pages? P----" Suddenly she knew. Pages y +Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop--a shop finer +than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom +instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there, +seething. + +That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she +had bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of +the Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of +one of those dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men +whose likeness graces the cover of a box of your favorite cigars. + +General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with +a revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like +most of the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora +Pages, very fat, very indolent, very blank, much given to pink +satin and diamonds at dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered, +overfrizzed, marvelously gowned, with overplumpness just a few +years away, sat quietly by Senora Pages' side, but her darting, +flashing, restless eyes were never still. The son (Emma heard +them call him Pepe) was barely eighteen, she thought, but quite a +man of the world, with his cigarettes, his drinks, his bold eyes. +She looked at his sallow, pimpled skin, his lean, brown hands, +his lack-luster eyes, and she thought of Jock and was happy. + +Mrs. McChesney knew that she might visit the magnificent Buenos +Aires shop of Pages y Hernandez day after day for months without +ever obtaining a glimpse of either Pages or Hernandez. And here +was Senor Pages, so near that she could reach out and touch him +from her deck chair. Here was opportunity! A caller who had +never been obliged to knock twice at Emma McChesney's door. + +Her methods were so simple that she herself smiled at them. She +donned her choicest suit of white serge that she had been saving +for shore wear. Its skirt had been cut by the very newest trick. +Its coat was the kind to make you go home and get out your own +white serge and gaze at it with loathing. Senorita Pages' eyes +leaped to that suit as iron leaps to the magnet. Emma McChesney, +passing her deck chair, detached the eyes with a neat smile. Why +hadn't she spent six months neglecting Skirts for Spanish? she +asked herself, groaning. As she approached her own deck chair +again she risked a bright, "Good morning." Her heart bounded, +stood still, bounded again, as from the lips of the assembled +Pages there issued a combined, courteous, perfectly good +American, "Good morning!" + +"You speak English!" Emma McChesney's tone expressed flattery +and surprise. + +Pages pere made answer. + +"Ah, yes, it is necessary. There are many English in +Argentina." + +A sigh--a fluttering, tremulous sigh of perfect peace and +happiness--welled up from Emma McChesney's heart and escaped +through her smiling lips. + +By noon, Senorita Pages had tried on the fascinating coat and +secured the address of its builder. By afternoon, Emma McChesney +was showing the newest embroidery stitch to the slow but docile +Senora Pages. Next morning she was playing shuffleboard with the +elegant, indolent Pepe, and talking North American football and +baseball to him. She had not been Jock McChesney's mother all +those years for nothing. She could discuss sports with the best +of them. Young Pages was avidly interested. Outdoor sports had +become the recent fashion among the rich young Argentines. + +The problem of papa Pages was not so easy. Emma McChesney +approached her subject warily, skirting the bypaths of politics, +war, climate, customs--to business. Business! + +"But a lady as charming as you can understand nothing of +business," said Senor Pages. "Business is for your militant +sisters." + +"But we American women do understand business. Many--many +charming American women are in business." + +Senor Pages turned his fine eyes upon her. She had talked most +interestingly, this pretty American woman. + +"Perhaps--but pardon me if I think not. A woman cannot be +really charming and also capable in business." + +Emma McChesney dimpled becomingly. + +"But I know a woman who is as--well, as charming as you say I +am. Still, she is known as a capable, successful business +woman. She'll be in Buenos Aires when I am." + +Senor Pages shook an unbelieving head. Emma McChesney leaned +forward. + +"Will you let me bring her in to meet you, just to prove my +point?" + +"She must be as charming as you are." His Argentine betting +proclivities rose. "Here; we shall make a wager!" He took a +card from his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it to Emma +McChesney. "You will please present that to my secretary, who +will conduct you immediately to my office. We will pretend it is +a friendly call. Your friend need not know. If I lose----" + +"If you lose, you must promise to let her show you her sample +line." + +"But, dear madam, I do no buying." + +"Then you must introduce her favorably to the department buyer +of her sort of goods." + +"But if I win?" persisted Senor Pages. + +"If she isn't as charming as--as you say I am, you may make your +own terms." + +Senor Pages' fine eyes opened wide. + +It was on the fourteenth day of their trip that they came into +quaint Bahia. The stay there was short. Brazilian business +methods are long. Emma McChesney took no chances with +sample-trunks or cases. She packed her three leading samples +into her own personal suitcase, eluded the other tourists, +secured an interpreter, and prepared to brave Bahia. She +returned just in time to catch the boat, flushed, tired, and +orderless. Bahia would have none of her. + +In three days they would reach Rio de Janeiro, the magnificent. +They would have three days there. She told herself that Bahia +didn't count, anyway--sleepy little half-breed town! But the +arrow rankled. It had been the first to penetrate the armor of +her business success. But she had learned things from that +experience at Bahia. She had learned that the South American +dislikes the North American because his Northern cousin +patronizes him. She learned that the North American business +firm is thought by the Southern business man to be tricky and +dishonest, and that, because the Northerner has not learned how +to pack a case of goods scientifically, as have the English, +Germans, and French, the South American rages to pay cubic-feet +rates on boxes that are three-quarters empty. + +So it was with a heavy heart but a knowing head that she faced +Rio de Janeiro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset +splashing the bay and the hills in the foreground and the +Sugar-loaf Mountain with an unbelievable riot of crimson and gold +and orange and blue. Suddenly the sun jerked down, as though +pulled by a string, and the magic purple night came up as though +pulled by another. + +"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney +thankfully. + +Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart +heavy, her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. +Three days in Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, +quick-thinking, quick-acting North American business head up +against the stone wall of South American leisureliness and +prejudice. She meant no irreverence, no impiety as she prayed, +meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into her personal bag: + +"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help +me to land Rio and Buenos Aires!" + +Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a +prayer in her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, +she made her way to the dock, through the customs, into a cab +that was to take her to her arena, the broad Avenida. + +Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a +well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was +running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get +there. She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of +modishly crippling skirt, past officers, past customs officials, +into the section where stood the one small sample-trunk that she +had ordered down in case of emergency. The trunk had not gone +through the customs. It had not even been opened. But Emma +McChesney heeded not trifles like that. Rio de Janeiro had +fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos. 79, 65, and +48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before seen in +Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a +hungry lion. Rio wanted more! + +Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her +key, unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted +from the trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers +choosing unerringly, when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, +"It is forbidden!" + +Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the +depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word, +"PROHIBA!" + +"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking. + +"INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a +superhuman effort, as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden +with Featherloom samples of rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!" + +Mrs. McChesney slammed down the trunk top, locked it, clutched +her samples firmly, and faced the enraged official. + +"Go 'way! I haven't time to be arrested this morning. This is +my busy day. Call around this evening." + +Whereupon she fled to her waiting cab, leaving behind her a +Brazilian official stunned and raging by turns. + +When she returned, happy, triumphant, order-laden, he was +standing there, stunned no longer but raging still. Emma +McChesney had forgotten all about him. The gold-braided +official advanced, mustachios bristling. A volley of Portuguese +burst from his long-pent lips. Emma McChesney glanced behind +her. Her interpreter threw up helpless hands, replying with a +still more terrifying burst of vowels. Bewildered, a little +frightened, Mrs. McChesney stood helplessly by. The official +laid a none too gentle hand on her shoulder. A little group of +lesser officials stood, comic-opera fashion, in the background. +And then Emma McChesney's New York training came to her aid. She +ignored the voluble interpreter. She remained coolly unruffled +by the fusillade of Portuguese. Quietly she opened her hand bag +and plunged her fingers deep, deep therein. Her blue eyes gazed +confidingly up into the Brazilian's snapping black ones, and as +she withdrew her hand from the depths of her purse, there passed +from her white fingers to his brown ones that which is the +Esperanto of the nations, the universal language understood from +Broadway to Brazil. The hand on her shoulder relaxed and fell +away. + +On deck once more, she encountered the suave Senor Pages. He +stood at the rail surveying Rio's shores with that lip-curling +contempt of the Argentine for everything Brazilian. He regarded +Emma McChesney's radiant face. + +"You are pleased with this--this Indian Rio?" + +Mrs. McChesney paused to gaze with him at the receding shores. + +"Like it! I'm afraid I haven't seen it. From here it looks +like Coney. But it buys like Seattle. Like it! Well, I should +say I do!" + +"Ah, senora," exclaimed Pages, distressed, "wait! In six days +you will behold Buenos Aires. Your New York, Londres, +Paris--bah! You shall drive with my wife and daughter through +Palermo. You shall see jewels, motors, toilettes as never +before. And you will visit my establishment?" He raised an +emphatic forefinger. "But surely!" + +Emma McChesney regarded him solemnly. + +"I promise to do that. You may rely on me." + +Six days later they swept up the muddy and majestic Plata, whose +color should have won it the name of River of Gold instead of +River of Silver. From the boat's upper deck, Emma McChesney +beheld a sky line which was so like the sky line of her own New +York that it gave her a shock. She was due for still another +shock when, an hour later, she found herself in a maelstrom of +motors, cabs, street cars, newsboys, skyscrapers, pedestrians, +policemen, subway stations. Where was the South American +languor? Where the Argentine inertia? The rush and roar of it, +the bustle and the bang of it made the twenty-three-day voyage +seem a myth. + +"I'm going to shut my eyes," she told herself, "and then open +them quickly. If that little brown traffic-policeman turns out +to be a big, red-faced traffic-policeman, then I'm right, and +this IS Broadway and Forty-second." + +Shock number three came upon her entrance at the Grande Hotel. +It had been Emma McChesney's boast that her ten years on the road +had familiarized her with every type, grade, style, shape, cut, +and mold of hotel clerk. She knew him from the Knickerbocker to +the Eagle House at Waterloo, Iowa. At the moment she entered the +Grande Hotel, she knew she had overlooked one. Accustomed though +she was to the sartorial splendors of the man behind the desk, +she might easily have mistaken this one for the president of the +republic. In his glittering uniform, he looked a pass between +the supreme chancellor of the K.P.'s in full regalia and a prince +of India during the Durbar. He was regal. He was overwhelming. +He would have made the most splendid specimen of North American +hotel clerk look like a scullery boy. Mrs. McChesney spent two +whole days in Buenos Aires before she discovered that she could +paralyze this personage with a peso. A peso is forty-three +cents. + +Her experience at Bahia and at Rio de Janeiro had taught her +things. So for two days, haunted, as she was, by visions of Fat +Ed Meyers coming up close behind her, she possessed her soul in +patience and waited. On the great firm of Pages y Hernandez +rested the success of this expedition. When she thought of her +little trick on Senor Pages, her blithe spirits sank. Suppose, +after all, that this powerful South American should resent her +little Yankee joke! + +Her trunks went through the customs. She secured an interpreter. +She arranged her samples with loving care. Style, cut, +workmanship--she ran over their strong points in her mind. She +looked at them as a mother's eyes rest fondly on the shining +faces, the well-brushed hair, the clean pinafores of her brood. +And her heart swelled with pride. They lay on their tables, the +artful knickerbockers, the gleaming petticoats, the pink and blue +pajamas, the bifurcated skirts. Emma McChesney ran one hand +lightly over the navy blue satin folds of a sample. + +"Pages or no Pages, you're a credit to your mother," she said, +whimsically. + +Up in her room once more, she selected her smartest tailor +costume, her most modish hat, the freshest of gloves and blouses. + +She chose the hours between four and six, when wheel traffic was +suspended in the Calle Florida and throughout the +shopping-district, the narrow streets of which are congested to +the point of suffocation at other times. + +As she swung down the street they turned to gaze after her--these +Argentines. The fat senoras turned, and the smartly costumed, +sallow senoritas, and the men--all of them. They spoke to her, +these last, but she had expected that, and marched on with her +free, swinging stride, her chin high, her color very bright. +Into the great shop of Pages y Hernandez at last, up to the +private offices, her breath coming a little quickly, into the +presence of the shiny secretary--shiny teeth, shiny hair, shiny +skin, shiny nails. He gazed upon Emma McChesney, the shine +gleaming brighter. He took in his slim, brown fingers the card +on which Senor Pages had scribbled that day on board ship. The +shine became dazzling. He bowed low and backed his way into the +office of Senor Pages. + +A successful man is most impressive when in those surroundings +which have been built up by his success. On shipboard, Senor +Pages had been a genial, charming, distinguished fellow +passenger. In his luxurious business office he still was genial, +charming, but his environment seemed to lend him a certain +austerity. + +"Senora McChesney!" + +("How awful that sounds!" Emma McChesney told herself.) + +"We spoke of you but last night. And now you come to win the +wager, yes?" He smiled, but shook his head. + +"Yes," replied Emma McChesney. And tried to smile, too. + +Senor Pages waved a hand toward the outer office. + +"She is with you, this business friend who is also so +charming?" + +"Oh, yes," said Emma McChesney, "she's--she's with me." +Then, as he made a motion toward the push-button, which would +summon the secretary: "No, don't do that! Wait a minute!" +From her bag she drew her business card, presented it. "Read +that first." + +Senor Pages read it. He looked up. Then he read it again. He +gazed again at Emma McChesney. Emma McChesney looked straight at +him and tried in vain to remember ever having heard of the South +American's sense of humor. A moment passed. Her heart sank. +Then Senor Pages threw back his fine head and laughed--laughed as +the Latin laughs, emphasizing his mirth with many ejaculations +and gestures. + +"Ah, you Northerners! You are too quick for us. Come; I myself +must see this garment which you honor by selling." His glance +rested approvingly on Emma McChesney's trim, smart figure. +"That which you sell, it must be quite right." + +"I not only sell it," said Emma McChesney; "I wear it." + +"That--how is it you Northerners say?--ah, yes--that settles +it!" + +Six weeks later, in his hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, T. A. Buck +sat reading a letter forwarded from New York and postmarked +Argentina. As he read he chuckled, grew serious, chuckled again +and allowed his cigar to grow cold. + +For the seventh time: + +DEAR T. A.: + +They've fallen for Featherlooms the way an Eskimo takes to +gum-drops. My letter of credit is all shot to pieces, but it was +worth it. They make you pay a separate license fee in each +province, and South America is just one darn province after +another. If they'd lump a peddler's license for $5,000 and tell +you to go ahead, it would be cheaper. + +I landed Pages y Hernandez by a trick. The best of it is the man +I played it on saw the point and laughed with me. We North +Americans brag too much about our sense of humor. + +I thought ten years on the road had hardened me to the most +fiendish efforts of a hotel chef. But the food at the Grande +here makes a quarter-inch round steak with German fried look like +Sherry's latest triumph. You know I'm not fussy. I'm the kind +of woman who, given her choice of ice cream or cheese for +dessert, will take cheese. Here, given my choice, I play safe +and take neither. I've reached the point where I make a meal of +radishes. They kill their beef in the morning and serve it for +lunch. It looks and tastes like an Ethiop's ear. But I don't +care, because I'm getting gorgeously thin. + +If the radishes hold out I'll invade Central America and Panama. +I've one eye on Valparaiso already. I know it sounds wild, but +it means a future and a fortune for Featherlooms. I find I don't +even have to talk skirts. They're self-sellers. But I have to +talk honesty and packing. + +How did you hit it off with Ella Sweeney? Haven't seen a sign of +Fat Ed Meyers. I'm getting nervous. Do you think he may have +exploded at the equator? + + EMMA. + + +But kind fortune saw fit to add a last sweet drop to Emma +McChesney's already brimming cup. As she reached the docks on +the day of her departure, clad in cool, crisp white from hat to +shoes, her quick eye spied a red-faced, rotund, familiar figure +disembarking from the New York boat, just arrived. The fates, +grinning, had planned this moment like a stage-manager. Fat Ed +Meyers came heavily down the gangplank. His hat was off. He was +mopping the top of his head with a large, damp handkerchief. His +gaze swept over the busy landing-docks, darted hither and +thither, alighted on Emma McChesney with a shock, and rested +there. A distinct little shock went through that lady, too. But +she waited at the foot of her boat's gangway until the +unbelievably nimble Meyers reached her. + +He was a fiery spectacle. His cheeks were distended, his eyes +protuberant. He wasted no words. They understood each other, +those two. + +"Coming or going?" + +"Going," replied Emma McChesney. + +"Clean up this--this Bonez Areez, too?" + +"Absolutely." + +"Did, huh?" + +Meyers stood a moment panting, his little eyes glaring into her +calm ones. + +"Well, I beat you in Bahia, anyway." he boasted. + +Emma McChesney snapped her fingers blithely. + +"Bah, for Bahia!" She took a step or two up the gangplank, and +turned. "Good-by, Ed. And good luck. I can recommend the +radishes, but pass up the beef. Dangerous." + +Fat Ed Meyers, still staring, began to stutter unintelligibly, +his lips moving while no words came. Emma McChesney held up a +warning hand. + +"Don't do that, Ed! Not in this climate! A man of your build, +too! I'm surprised. Consider the feelings of your firm!" + +Fat Ed Meyers glared up at the white-clad, smiling, gracious +figure. His hands unclenched. The words came. + +"Oh, if only you were a man for just ten minutes!" he moaned. + + + +II + +THANKS TO MISS MORRISSEY + +It was Fat Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, who first +said that Mrs. Emma McChesney was the Maude Adams of the business +world. It was on the occasion of his being called to the carpet +for his failure to make Sans-silks as popular as Emma McChesney's +famed Featherlooms. He spoke in self-defense, heatedly. + +"It isn't Featherlooms. It's McChesney. Her line is no better +than ours. It's her personality, not her petticoats. She's got +a following that swears by her. If Maude Adams was to open on +Broadway in `East Lynne,' they'd flock to see her, wouldn't they? +Well, Emma McChesney could sell hoop-skirts, I'm telling you. +She could sell bustles. She could sell red-woolen mittens on +Fifth Avenue!" + +The title stuck. + +It was late in September when Mrs. McChesney, sunburned, +decidedly under weight, but gloriously triumphant, returned from +a four months' tour of South America. Against the earnest +protests of her business partner, T. A. Buck, president of the +Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, she had invaded the southern +continent and left it abloom with Featherlooms from the Plata to +the Canal. + +Success was no stranger to Mrs. McChesney. This last business +victory had not turned her head. But it had come perilously near +to tilting that extraordinarily well-balanced part. A certain +light in her eyes, a certain set of her chin, an added briskness +of bearing, a cocky slant of the eyebrow revealed the fact that, +though Mrs. McChesney's feet were still on the ground, she might +be said to be standing on tiptoe. + +When she had sailed from Brooklyn pier that June afternoon, four +months before, she had cast her ordinary load of business +responsibilities on the unaccustomed shoulders of T. A. Buck. +That elegant person, although president of the company which his +father had founded, had never been its real head. When trouble +threatened in the workroom, it was to Mrs. McChesney that the +forewoman came. When an irascible customer in Green Bay, +Wisconsin, waxed impatient over the delayed shipment of a +Featherloom order, it was to Emma McChesney that his typewritten +protest was addressed. When the office machinery needed mental +oiling, when a new hand demanded to be put on silk-work instead +of mercerized, when a consignment of skirt-material turned out to +be more than usually metallic, it was in Mrs. Emma McChesney's +little private office that the tangle was unsnarled. + +She walked into that little office, now, at nine o'clock of a +brilliant September morning. It was a reassuring room, bright, +orderly, workmanlike, reflecting the personality of its owner. +She stood in the center of it now and looked about her, eyes +glowing, lips parted. She raised her hands high above her head, +then brought them down to her sides again with an unconsciously +dramatic gesture that expressed triumph, peace, content, relief, +accomplishment, and a great and deep satisfaction. T. A. Buck, +in the doorway, saw the gesture--and understood. + +"Not so bad to get back to it, is it?" + +"Bad! It's like a drink of cool spring water after too much +champagne. In those miserable South American hotels, how I used +to long for the orderliness and quiet of this!" + +She took off hat and coat. In a vase on the desk, a cluster of +yellow chrysanthemums shook their shaggy heads in welcome. Emma +McChesney's quick eye jumped to them, then to Buck, who had come +in and was surveying the scene appreciatively. + +"You--of course." She indicated the flowers with a nod and a +radiant smile. + +"Sorry--no. The office staff did that. There's a card of +welcome, I believe." + +"Oh," said Emma McChesney. The smile was still there, but the +radiance was gone. + +She seated herself at her desk. Buck took the chair near by. +She unlocked a drawer, opened it, rummaged, closed it again, +unlocked another. She patted the flat top of her desk with +loving fingers. + +"I can't help it," she said, with a little shamed laugh; "I'm +so glad to be back. I'll probably hug the forewoman and bite a +piece out of the first Featherloom I lay hands on. I had to use +all my self-control to keep from kissing Jake, the elevator-man, +coming up." + +Out of the corner of her eye, Emma McChesney had been glancing at +her handsome business partner. She had found herself doing the +same thing from the time he had met her at the dock late in the +afternoon of the day before. Those four months had wrought some +subtle change. But what? Where? She frowned a moment in +thought. + +Then: + +"Is that a new suit, T. A.?" + +"This? Lord, no! Last summer's. Put it on because of this +July hangover in September. Why?" + +"Oh, I don't know"--vaguely--"I just--wondered." + +There was nothing vague about T. A. Buck, however. His old air +of leisureliness was gone. His very attitude as he sat there, +erect, brisk, confident, was in direct contrast to his old, +graceful indolence. + +"I'd like to go over the home grounds with you this morning," +he said. "Of course, in our talk last night, we didn't cover +the South American situation thoroughly. But your letters and +the orders told the story. You carried the thing through to +success. It's marvelous! But we stay-at-homes haven't been +marking time during your absence." + +The puzzled frown still sat on Emma McChesney's brow. As though +thinking aloud, she said, + +"Have you grown thinner, or fatter or--something?" + +"Not an ounce. Weighed at the club yesterday." + +He leaned forward a little, his face suddenly very sober. + +"Emma, I want to tell you now that--that mother--she--I lost her +just a few weeks after you sailed." + +Emma McChesney gave a little cry. She came quickly over to him, +and one hand went to his shoulder as she stood looking down at +him, her face all sympathy and contrition and sorrow. + +"And you didn't write me! You didn't even tell me, last +night!" + +"I didn't want to distress you. I knew you were having a +hard-enough pull down there without additional worries. It +happened very suddenly while I was out on the road. I got the +wire in Peoria. She died very suddenly and quite painlessly. +Her companion, Miss Tate, was with her. She had never been +herself since Dad's death." + +"And you----" + +"I could only do what was to be done. Then I went back on the +road. I closed up the house, and now I've leased it. Of course +it's big enough for a regiment. But we stayed on because mother +was used to it. I sold some of the furniture, but stored the +things she had loved. She left some to you." + +"To me!" + +"You know she used to enjoy your visits so much, partly because +of the way in which you always talked of Dad. She left you some +jewelry that she was fond of, and that colossal old mahogany +buffet that you used to rave over whenever you came up. Heaven +knows what you'll do with it! It's a white elephant. If you add +another story to it, you could rent it out as an apartment." + +"Indeed I shall take it, and cherish it, and polish it up myself +every week--the beauty!" + +She came back to her chair. They sat a moment in silence. Then +Emma McChesney spoke musingly. + +"So that was it." Buck looked up. "I sensed +something--different. I didn't know. I couldn't explain it." + +Buck passed a quick hand over his eyes, shook himself, sat up, +erect and brisk again, and plunged, with a directness that was as +startling as it was new in him, into the details of Middle +Western business. + +"Good!" exclaimed Emma McChesney. + +"It's all very well to know that Featherlooms are safe in South +America. But the important thing is to know how they're going in +the corn country." + +Buck stood up. + +"Suppose we transfer this talk to my office. All the papers are +there, all the correspondence--all the orders, everything. You +can get the whole situation in half an hour. What's the use of +talking when figures will tell you." + +He walked swiftly over to the door and stood there waiting. Emma +McChesney rose. The puzzled look was there again. + +"No, that wasn't it, after all," she said. + +"Eh?" said Buck. "Wasn't what?" + +"Nothing," replied Emma McChesney. + +"I'm wool-gathering this morning. I'm afraid it's going to +take me a day or two to get back into harness again." + +"If you'd rather wait, if you think you'll be more fit to-morrow +or the day after, we'll wait. There's no real hurry. I just +thought----" + +But Mrs. McChesney led the way across the hall that separated her +office from her partner's. Halfway across, she stopped and +surveyed the big, bright, busy main office, with its clacking +typewriters and rustle and crackle of papers and its air of +concentration. + +"Why, you've run up a partition there between Miss Casey's desk +and the workroom door, haven't you?" + +"Yes; it's much better that way." + +"Yes, of course. And--why, where are the boys' desks? +Spalding's and Hutchinson's, and--they're all gone!" She +turned in amazement. + +"Break it to me! Aren't we using traveling men any more?" + +Buck laughed his low, pleasant laugh. + +"Oh, yes; but I thought their desks belonged somewhere else than +in the main office. They're now installed in the little room +between the shop and Healy's office. Close quarters, but better +than having them out here where they were inclined to neglect +their reports in order to shine in the eyes of that pretty new +stenographer. There are one or two other changes. I hope you'll +approve of them." + +"I'm sure I shall," replied Emma McChesney, a little stiffly. + +In Buck's office, she settled back in her chair to watch him as +he arranged neat sheaves of papers for her inspection. Her eyes +traveled from his keen, eager face to the piles of paper and back +again. + +"Tell me, did you hit it off with the Ella Sweeneys and the +Sadie Harrises of the great Middle West? Is business as bad as +the howlers say it is? You said something last night about a +novelty bifurcated skirt. Was that the new designer's idea? How +have the early buyers taken to it?" + +Buck crooked an elbow over his head in self-defense. + +"Stop it! You make me feel like Rheims cathedral. Don't +bombard until negotiations fail." + +He handed her the first sheaf of papers. But, before she began +to read: "I'll say this much. Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, +Omaha--the one you warned against as the human cactus--had me up +for dinner. Well, I know you don't, but it's true. Her father +and I hit it off just like that. He's a character, that old boy. +Ever meet him? No? And Miss Sharp told me something about +herself that explains her porcupine pose. That poor child was +engaged to a chap who was killed in the Spanish-American war, +and she----" + +"Kate Sharp!" interrupted Emma McChesney. "Why, T. A. Buck, +in all her vinegary, narrow life, that girl has never had a beau, +much less----" + +Buck's eyebrows came up slightly. + +"Emma McChesney, you haven't developed--er--claws, have you?" + +With a gasp, Emma McChesney plunged into the papers before her. +For ten minutes, the silence of the room was unbroken except for +the crackling of papers. Then Emma McChesney put down the first +sheaf and looked up at her business partner. + +"Is that a fair sample?" she demanded. + +"Very," answered T. A. Buck, and handed her another set. + +Another ten minutes of silence. Emma McChesney reached out a +hand for still another set of papers. The pink of repressed +excitement was tinting her cheeks. + +"They're--they're all like this?" + +"Practically, yes." + +Mrs. McChesney faced him, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast. + +"T. A. Buck," she slapped the papers before her smartly with +the back of her hand, "this means you've broken our record for +Middle Western sales!" + +"Yes," said T. A., quietly. "Dad would have enjoyed a morning +like this, wouldn't he?" + +Emma McChesney stood up. + +"Enjoyed it! He is enjoying it. Don't tell me that T. A., +Senior, just because he is no longer on earth, has failed to get +the joy of knowing that his son has realized his fondest dreams. +Why, I can feel him here in this room, I can see those bright +brown eyes of his twinkling behind his glasses. Not know it! Of +course he knows it." + +Buck looked down at the desk, smiling curiously. + +"D'you know, I felt that way, too." + +Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. It was not all +mirth--that laugh. Buck waited. + +"And to think that I--I kindly and patronizingly handed you a +little book full of tips on how to handle Western buyers, `The +Salesman's Who's Who'--I, who used to think I was the witch of +the West when it came to selling! You, on your first +selling-trip, have made me look like--like a shoe-string +peddler." + +Buck put out a hand suddenly. + +"Don't say that, Emma. I--somehow it takes away all the +pleasure." + +"It's true. And now that I know, it explains a lot of things +that I've been puzzling about in the last twenty-four hours." + +"What kind of things?" + +"The way you look and act and think. The way you carry your +head. The way you sit in a chair. The very words you use, your +gestures, your intonations. They're different." + +T. A. Buck, busy with his cigar, laughed a little +self-consciously. + +"Oh, nonsense!" he said. "You're imagining things." + +Which remark, while not a particularly happy one, certainly was +not in itself so unfortunate as to explain why Mrs. McChesney +should have turned rather suddenly and bolted into her own office +across the hall and closed the door behind her. + +T. A. Buck, quite cool and unruffled, viewed her sudden departure +quizzically. Then he took his cigar from his mouth and stood +eying it a moment with more attention, perhaps, than it deserved, +in spite of its fine aroma. When he put it back between his lips +and sat down at his desk once more he was smiling ever so +slightly. + +Then began a new order of things in the offices of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company. Feet that once had turned quite +as a matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," +now took the direction of the door opposite--and that door bore +the name of Buck. Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence +had put her partner to the test. That acid test had washed away +the accumulated dross of years and revealed the precious metal +beneath. T. A. Buck had proved to be his father's son. + +If Mrs. McChesney noticed that the head office had miraculously +moved across the hall, if her sharp ears marked that the many +feet that once had paused at her door now stopped at the door +opposite, if she realized that instead of, "I'd like your +opinion on this, Mrs. McChesney," she often heard the new, +"I'll ask Mr. Buck," she did not show it by word or sign. + +The first of October found buyers still flocking into New York +from every State in the country. Shrewd men and women, +these--bargain hunters on a grand scale. Armed with the long +spoon of business knowledge, they came to skim the cream from +factory and workroom products set forth for their inspection. + +For years, it had been Emma McChesney's quiet boast that of those +whose business brought them to the offices and showrooms of the +T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, the foremost insisted +on dealing only with her. She was proud of her following. She +liked their loyalty. Their preference for her was the subtlest +compliment that was in their power to pay. Ethel Morrissey, +whose friendship dated back to the days when Emma McChesney had +sold Featherlooms through the Middle West, used to say +laughingly, her plump, comfortable shoulders shaking, "Emma, if +you ever give me away by telling how many years I've been buying +Featherlooms of you, I'll--I'll call down upon you the spinster's +curse." + +Early Monday morning, Mrs. McChesney, coming down the hall from +the workroom, encountered Miss Ella Sweeney, of Klein & Company, +Des Moines, Iowa, stepping out of the elevator. A very skittish +Miss Sweeney, rustling, preening, conscious of her dangling black +earrings and her Robespierre collar and her beauty-patch. Emma +McChesney met this apparition with outstretched, welcoming hand. + +"Ella Sweeney! Well, I'd almost given you up. You're late this +fall. Come into my office." + +She led the way, not noticing that Miss Sweeney came reluctantly, +her eyes on the closed door across the way. + +"Sit down," said Emma McChesney, and pulled a chair nearer her +desk. "No; wait a minute! Let me look at you. Now, Ella, +don't try to tell me that THAT dress came from Des Moines, Iowa! +Do I! Why, child, it's distinctive!" + +Miss Sweeney, still standing, smiled a pleased but rather +preoccupied smile. Her eyes roved toward the door. + +Emma McChesney, radiating good will and energy, went on: + +"Wait till you see our new samples! You'll buy a million +dollars' worth. Just let me lead you to our new Walk-Easy +bifurcated skirt. We call it the `one-stepper's delight.' " +She put a hand on Ella Sweeney's arm, preparatory to guiding her +to the showrooms in the rear. But Miss Sweeney's strange +reluctance grew into resolve. A blush, as real as it was +unaccustomed, arose to her bepowdered cheeks. + +"Is--I--that is--Mr. Buck is in, I suppose?" + +"Mr. Buck? Oh, yes, he's in." + +Miss Sweeney's eyes sought the closed door across the hall. + +"Is that--his office?" + +Emma McChesney stiffened a little. Her eyes narrowed +thoughtfully. "You have guessed it," she said crisply. "Mr. +Buck's name is on the door, and you are looking at it." + +Miss Sweeney looked down, looked up, twiddled the chain about her +neck. + +"You want to see Mr. Buck?" asked Emma McChesney quietly. + +Miss Sweeney simpered down at her glove-tips, fluttered her +eyelids. + +"Well--yes--I--I--you see, I bought of him this year, and when +you buy of a person, why, naturally, you----" + +"Naturally; I understand." + +She walked across the hall, threw open the door, and met T. A. +Buck's glance coolly. + +"Mr. Buck, Miss Sweeney, of Des Moines, is here, and I'm sure +you want to see her. This way, Miss Sweeney." + +Miss Sweeney, sidling, blushing, fluttering, teetered in. Emma +McChesney, just before she closed the door, saw a little spasm +cross Buck's face. It was gone so quickly, and a radiant smile +sat there so reassuringly, that she wondered if she had not been +mistaken, after all. He had advanced, hand outstretched, with: + +"Miss Sweeney! It--it's wonderful to see you again! You're +looking----" + +The closed door stifled the rest. Emma McChesney, in her office +across the way, stood a moment in the center of the room, her +hand covering her eyes. The hardy chrysanthemums still glowed +sunnily from their vase. The little room was very quiet except +for the ticking of the smart, leather-encased clock on the desk. + +The closed door shut out factory and office sounds. And Emma +McChesney stood with one hand over her eyes. So Napoleon might +have stood after Waterloo. + +After this first lesson, Mrs. McChesney did not err again. When, +two days later, Miss Sharp, of Berg Brothers, Omaha, breezed in, +looking strangely juvenile and distinctly anticipatory, Emma +greeted her smilingly and waved her toward the door opposite. +Miss Sharp, the erstwhile bristling, was strangely smooth and +sleek. She glanced ever so softly, sighed ever so flutteringly. + +"Working side by side with him, seeing him day after day, how +have you been able to resist him?" + +Emma McChesney was only human, after all. + +"By remembering that this is a business house, not a matrimonial +parlor." + +The dart found no lodging place in Miss Sharp's sleek armor. She +seemed scarcely to have heard. + +"My dear," she whispered, "his eyes! And his manner! You +must be--whatchamaycallit --adamant. Is that the way you +pronounce it? You know what I mean." + +"Oh, yes," replied Emma McChesney evenly, "I--know what you +mean." + +She told herself that she was justified in the righteous contempt +which she felt for this sort of thing. A heart-breaker! A cheap +lady-killer! Whereupon in walked Sam Bloom, of the Paris +Emporium, Duluth, one of Mrs. McChesney's stanchest admirers and +a long-tried business friend. + +The usual thing: "Younger than ever, Mrs. McChesney! You're a +wonder--yes, you are! How's business? Same here. Going to have +lunch with me to-day?" Then: "I'll just run in and see Buck. +Say, where's he been keeping himself all these years? Chip off +the old block, that boy." + +So he had the men, too! + +It was in this frame of mind that Miss Ethel Morrissey found her +on the morning that she came into New York on her semi-annual +buying-trip. Ethel Morrissey, plump, matronly-looking, quiet, +with her hair fast graying at the sides, had nothing of the +skittish Middle Western buyer about her. She might have passed +for the mother of a brood of six if it were not for her eyes--the +shrewd, twinkling, far-sighted, reckoning eyes of the business +woman. She and Emma McChesney had been friends from the day that +Ethel Morrissey had bought her first cautious bill of +Featherlooms. Her love for Emma McChesney had much of the +maternal in it. She felt a personal pride in Emma McChesney's +work, her success, her clean reputation, her life of self-denial +for her son Jock. When Ethel Morrissey was planned by her Maker, +she had not been meant to be wasted on the skirt-and-suit +department of a small-town store. That broad, gracious breast +had been planned as a resting-place for heads in need of comfort. +Those plump, firm arms were meant to enfold the weak and +distressed. Those capable hands should have smoothed troubled +heads and patted plump cheeks, instead of wasting their gifts in +folding piles of petticoats and deftly twitching a plait or a +tuck into place. She was playing Rosalind in buskins when she +should have been cast for the Nurse. + +She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit +and her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and +rosy-cheeked and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney +thought, as she kissed her, while the plump arms held her close. + +Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and +eyed her. + +"Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me. I +want to buy and get it over, so we can talk." + +"Are you sure that you want to buy of me?" asked Emma +McChesney, a little wearily. + +"What's the joke?" + +"I'm not joking. I thought that perhaps you might prefer to see +Mr. Buck this trip." + +Ethel Morrissey placed one forefinger under Emma McChesney's chin +and turned that lady's face toward her and gazed at her long and +thoughtfully--the most trying test of courage in the world, that, +to one whose eyes fear meeting yours. Emma McChesney, bravest of +women, tried to withstand it, and failed. The next instant her +head lay on Ethel Morrissey's broad breast, her hands were +clutching the plump shoulders, her cheek was being patted +soothingly by the kind hands. + +"Now, now--what is it, dear? Tell Ethel. Yes; I do know, but +tell me, anyway. It'll do you good." + +And Emma McChesney told her. When she had finished: + +"You bathe your eyes, Emma, and put on your hat and we'll eat. +Oh, yes, you will. A cup of tea, anyway. Isn't there some +little cool fool place where I can be comfortable on a hot day +like this--where we can talk comfortably? I've got at least an +hour's conversation in me." + +With the first sip of her first cup of tea, Ethel Morrissey began +to unload that burden of conversation. + +"Emma, this is the best thing that could have happened to you. +Oh, yes, it is. The queer thing about it is that it didn't +happen sooner. It was bound to come. You know, Emma, the Lord +lets a woman climb just so high up the mountain of success. And +then, when she gets too cocky, when she begins to measure her +wits and brain and strength against that of men, and finds +herself superior, he just taps her smartly on the head and shins, +so that she stumbles, falls, and rolls down a few miles on the +road she has traveled so painfully. He does it just as a gentle +reminder to her that she's only a woman, after all. Oh, I know +all about this feminist talk. But this thing's been proven. +Look at what happened to--to Joan of Arc, and Becky Sharp, and +Mary Queen of Scots, and--yes, I have been spending my evenings +reading. Now, stop laughing at your old Ethel, Emma McChesney!" + +"You meant me to laugh, dear old thing. I don't feel much like +it, though. I don't see why I should be reminded of my lowly +state. Heaven knows I haven't been so terrifically pleased with +myself! Of course, that South American trip was--well, +gratifying. But I earned it. For ten years I lived with head in +a sample-trunk, didn't I? I worked hard enough to win the love +of all these Westerners. It wasn't all walking dreamily down +Main Street, strewing Featherlooms along my path." + +Ethel Morrissey stirred her second cup of tea, sipped, stirred, +smiled, then reached over and patted Emma McChesney's hand. + +"Emma, I'm a wise old party, and I can see that it isn't all +pique with you. It's something else--something deeper. Oh, yes, +it is! Now let me tell you what happened when T. A. Buck invaded +your old-time territory. I was busy up in my department the +morning he came in. I had my head in a rack of coats, and a +henny customer waiting. But I sensed something stirring, and I +stuck my head out of the coat-rack in which I was fumbling. The +department was aflutter like a poultry-yard. Every woman in it, +from the little new Swede stock-girl to Gladys Hemingway, who is +only working to wear out her old clothes, was standing with her +face toward the elevator, and on her face a look that would make +the ordinary door-mat marked `Welcome' seem like an insult. I +kind of smoothed my back hair, because I knew that only one thing +could bring that look into a woman's face. And down the aisle +came a tall, slim, distinguished-looking, wonderfully tailored, +chamois-gloved, walking-sticked Fifth Avenue person with EYES! +Of course, I knew. But the other girls didn't. They just sort +of fell back at his approach, smitten. He didn't even raise an +eyebrow to do it. Now, Emma, I'm not exaggerating. I know what +effect he had on me and my girls, and, for that matter, every +other man or woman in the store. Why, he was a dream realized to +most of 'em. These shrewd, clever buyer-girls know plenty of +men--business men of the slap-bang, horn-blowing, bluff, +good-natured, hello-kid kind--the kind that takes you out to +dinner and blows cigar smoke in your face. Along comes this +chap, elegant, well dressed and not even conscious of it, +polished, suave, smooth, low-voiced, well bred. Why, when he +spoke to a girl, it was the subtlest kind of flattery. Can you +see little Sadie Harris, of Duluth, drawing a mental comparison +between Sam Bloom, the store-manager, and this fascinating +devil--Sam, red-faced, loud voiced, shirt-sleeving it around the +sample room, his hat pushed 'way back on his head, chewing his +cigar like mad, and wild-eyed for fear he's buying wrong? Why, +child, in our town, nobody carries a cane except the Elks when +they have their annual parade, and old man Schwenkel, who's lame. + +And yet we all accepted that yellow walking-stick of Buck's. It +belonged to him. There isn't a skirt-buyer in the Middle West +that doesn't dream of him all night and push Featherlooms in the +store all day. Emma, I'm old and fat and fifty, but when I had +dinner with him at the Manitoba House that evening, I caught +myself making eyes at him, knowing that every woman in the +dining-room would have given her front teeth to be where I was." + +After which extensive period, Ethel Morrissey helped herself to +her third cup of tea. Emma McChesney relaxed a little and +laughed a tremulous little laugh. + +"Oh, well, I suppose I must not hope to combat such formidable +rivals as walking-sticks, chamois gloves, and EYES. My business +arguments are futile compared to those." + +Ethel Morrissey delivered herself of a last shot. + +"You're wrong, Emma. Those things helped him, but they didn't +sell his line. He sold Featherlooms out of salesmanship, and +because he sounded convincing and sincere and businesslike--and +he had the samples. It wasn't all bunk. It was three-quarters +business. Those two make an invincible combination." + +An hour later, Ethel Morrissey was shrewdly selecting her winter +line of Featherlooms from the stock in the showrooms of the T. A. +Buck Company. They went about their business transaction, these +two, with the cool abruptness of men, speaking little, and then +only of prices, discounts, dating, shipping. Their luncheon +conversation of an hour before seemed an impossibility. + +"You'll have dinner with me to-night?" Emma asked. "Up at my +apartment, all cozy?" + +"Not to-night, dearie. I'll be in bed by eight. I'm not the +girl I used to be. Time was when a New York buying-trip was a +vacation. Now it's a chore." + +She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. + +"If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel +like company, why don't you ask--somebody else that's lonesome." + +After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a +sudden good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow. + +Emma McChesney, her color high, entered her office. It was five +o'clock. She cleared her desk in half an hour, breathed a sigh +of weariness, reached for hat and jacket, donned them, and, +turning out her lights, closed her door behind her for the day. +At that same instant, T. A. Buck slammed his own door and walked +briskly down the hall. They met at the elevator. + +They descended in silence. The street gained, they paused +uncertainly. + +"Won't you stay down and have dinner with me to-night, Emma?" + +"Thanks so much, T. A. Not to-night." + +"I'm--sorry." + +"Good night." + +"Good night." + +She turned away. He stood there, in the busy street, looking +irresolutely and not at all eagerly in the direction of his club, +perhaps, or his hotel, or whatever shelter he sought after +business hours. Something in his attitude--the loneliness of it, +the uncertainty, the indecision --smote Emma McChesney with a +great pang. She came swiftly back. + +"I wish you'd come home to dinner with me. I don't know what +Annie'll give us. Probably bread pudding. She does, when she's +left to her own devices. But I--I wish you would." She looked +up at him almost shyly. + +T. A. Buck took Emma McChesney's arm in a rather unnecessarily +firm grip and propelled her, surprised and protesting, in the +direction of the nearest vacant taxi. + +"But, T. A.! This is idiotic! Why take a cab to go home from +the office on a--a week day?" + +"In with you! Besides, I never have a chance to take one from +the office on Sunday, do I? Does Annie always cook enough for +two?" + +Apparently Annie did. Annie was something of a witch, in her +way. She whisked about, wrought certain changes, did things with +asparagus and mayonnaise, lighted the rose-shaded table-candles. +No one noticed that dinner was twenty minutes late. + +Together they admired the great mahogany buffet that Emma had +miraculously found space for in the little dining-room. + +"It glows like a great, deep ruby, doesn't it?" she said +proudly. "You should see Annie circle around it with the +carpet-sweeper. She knows one bump would be followed by instant +death." + +Looking back on it, afterward, they remembered that the dinner +was a very silent one. They did not notice their wordlessness at +the time. Once, when the chops came on, Buck said absently, + +"Oh, I had those for l----" Then he stopped abruptly. + +Emma McChesney smiled. + +"Your mother trained you well," she said. + +The October night had grown cool. Annie had lighted a wood fire +in the living-room. + +"That was what attracted me to this apartment in the first +place," Mrs. McChesney said, as they left the dining-room. "A +fireplace--a practical, real, wood-burning fireplace in a New +York apartment! I'd have signed the lease if the plaster had +been falling in chunks and the bathtub had been zinc." + +"That's because fireplaces mean home--in our minds," said Buck. + +He sat looking into the heart of the glow. There fell another of +those comfortable silences. + +"T. A., I--I want to tell you that I know I've been acting the +cat ever since I got home from South America and found that you +had taken charge. You see, you had spoiled me. The thing that +has happened to me is the thing that always happens to those who +assume to be dictators. I just want you to know, now, that I'm +glad and proud and happy because you have come into your own. It +hurt me just at first. That was the pride of me. I'm quite over +that now. You're not only president of the T. A. Buck Company in +name. You're its actual head. And that's as it should be. Long +live the King!" + +Buck sat silent a moment. Then, + +"I had to do it, Emma." She looked up. "You have a wonderful +brain," said Buck then, and the two utterances seemed connected +in his mind. + +They seemed to bring no great satisfaction to the woman to whom +he addressed them, however. She thanked him dryly, as women do +when their brain is dragged into an intimate conversation. + +"But," said Buck, and suddenly stood up, looking at her very +intently, "it isn't for your mind that I love you this minute. +I love you for your eyes, Emma, and for your mouth--you have the +tenderest, most womanly-sweet mouth in the world--and for your +hair, and the way your chin curves. I love you for your +throat-line, and for the way you walk and talk and sit, for the +way you look at me, and for the way you don't look at me." + +He reached down and gathered Emma McChesney, the alert, the +aggressive, the capable, into his arms, quite as men gather the +clingingest kind of woman. "And now suppose you tell me just +why and how you love me." + +And Emma McChesney told him. + +When, at last, he was leaving, + +"Don't you think," asked Emma McChesney, her hands on his +shoulders, "that you overdid the fascination thing just the +least leetle bit there on the road?" + +"Well, but you told me to entertain them, didn't you?" + +"Yes," reluctantly; "but I didn't tell you to consecrate your +life to 'em. The ordinary fat, middle-aged, every-day traveling +man will never be able to sell Featherlooms in the Middle West +again. They won't have 'em. They'll never be satisfied with +anything less than John Drew after this." + +"Emma McChesney, you're not marrying me because a lot of +overdressed, giggling, skittish old girls have taken a fancy to +make eyes at me, are you!" + +Emma McChesney stood up very straight and tall. + +"I'm marrying you, T. A., because you are a great, big, fine, +upstanding, tender, wonderful----" + +"Oh, well, then that's all right," broke in Buck, a little +tremulously. + +Emma McChesney's face grew serious. + +"But promise me one thing, T. A. Promise me that when you come +home for dinner at night, you'll never say, `Good heavens, I had +that for lunch!' " + + + +III + +A CLOSER CORPORATION + +Front offices resemble back kitchens in this: they have always an +ear at the keyhole, an eye at the crack, a nose in the air. But + +between the ordinary front office and the front office of the T. +A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company there was a difference. +The employees at Buck's--from Emil, the errand boy, to old Pop +Henderson, who had started as errand boy himself twenty-five +years before--possessed the quality of loyalty. They were loyal +to the memory of old man Buck, because they had loved and +respected him. They were loyal to Mrs. Emma McChesney, because +she was Mrs. Emma McChesney (which amounts to the same reason). +They were loyal to T. A. Buck, because he was his father's son. + +For three weeks the front office had been bewildered. From +bewilderment it passed to worry. A worried, bewildered front +office is not an efficient front office. Ever since Mrs. +McChesney had come off the road, at the death of old T. A. Buck, +to assume the secretaryship of the company which she had served +faithfully for ten years, she had set an example for the entire +establishment. She was the pacemaker. Every day of her life she +figuratively pressed the electric button that set the wheels to +whirring. At nine A.M., sharp, she appeared, erect, brisk, +alert, vibrating energy. Usually, the office staff had not yet +swung into its gait. In a desultory way, it had been getting +into its sateen sleevelets, adjusting its eye-shades, uncovering +its typewriter, opening its ledgers, bringing out its files. +Then, down the hall, would come the sound of a firm, light, +buoyant step. An electric thrill would pass through the front +office. Then the sunny, sincere, "Good morning!" + +" `Morning, Mrs. McChesney!" the front office would chorus +back. + +The day had begun for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company. + +Hortense, the blond stenographer (engaged to the shipping-clerk), +noticed it first. The psychology of that is interesting. +Hortense knew that by nine-thirty Mrs. McChesney's desk would be +clear and that the buzzer would summon her. Hortense didn't mind +taking dictation from T. A. Buck, though his method was +hesitating and jerky, and he was likely to employ quite casually +a baffling and unaccustomed word, over which Hortense's +scampering pencil would pause, struggle desperately, then race +on. Hortense often was in for a quick, furtive session with her +pocket-dictionary after one of T. A.'s periods. But with Mrs. +McChesney, dictation was a joy. She knew what she wanted to say +and she always said it. The words she used were short, +clean-cut, meaningful Anglo-Saxon words. She never used received +when she could use got. Hers was the rapid-fire-gun method, each +word sharp, well timed, efficient. + +Imagine, then, Hortense staring wide-eyed and puzzled at a +floundering, hesitating, absent-minded Mrs. McChesney--a Mrs. +McChesney strangely starry as to eyes, strangely dreamy as to +mood, decidedly deficient as to dictation. Imagine a Hortense +with pencil poised in air a full five minutes, waiting until Mrs. +McChesney should come to herself with a start, frown, smile +vaguely, pass a hand over her eyes, and say, "Let me see--where +was I?" + +" `And we find, on referring to your order, that the goods you +mention----' " Hortense would prompt patiently. + +"Oh, yes, of course," with an effort. Hortense was beginning +to grow alarmed. + +In T. A. Buck's office, just across the hall, the change was +quite as noticeable, but in another way. His leisurely drawl was +gone. His deliberate manner was replaced by a brisk, +quick-thinking, quick-speaking one. His words were brief and to +the point. He seemed to be riding on the crest of an +excitement-wave. And, as he dictated, he smiled. + +Hortense stood it for a week. Then she unburdened herself to +Miss Kelly, the assistant bookkeeper. Miss Kelly evinced no +surprise at her disclosures. + +"I was just talking about it to Pop yesterday. She acts +worried, doesn't she? And yet, not exactly worried, either. Do +you suppose it can be that son of hers--what's his name? Jock." + +Hortense shook her head. + +"No; he's all right. She had a letter from him yesterday. He's +got a grand position in Chicago, and he's going to marry that +girl he was so stuck on here. And it isn't that, either, because +Mrs. McChesney likes her. I can tell by the way she talks about +her. I ought to know. Look how Henry's ma acted toward me when +we were first engaged!" + +The front office buzzed with it. It crept into the +workroom--into the shipping-room. It penetrated the frowsy head +of Jake, the elevator-man. As the days went on and the tempo of +the front office slackened with that of the two bright little +inner offices, only one member of the whole staff remained +unmoved, incurious, taciturn. Pop Henderson listened, one scant +old eyebrow raised knowingly, a whimsical half-smile screwing up +his wrinkled face. + +At the end of three weeks, Hortense, with that display of +temperament so often encountered in young ladies of her +profession, announced in desperation that, if this thing kept on, +she was going to forget herself and jeopardize her position by +demanding to know outright what the trouble was. + +From the direction of Pop Henderson's inky retreat, there came +the sound of a dry chuckle. Pop Henderson had been chuckling in +just that way for three weeks, now. It was getting on the nerves +of his colleagues. + +"If you ever spring the joke that's kept you giggling for a +month," snapped Hortense, "it'll break up the office." + +Pop Henderson removed his eye-shade very deliberately, passed his +thin, cramped old hand over his scant gray locks to his bald +spot, climbed down stiffly from his stool, ambled to the center +of the room, and, head cocked like a knowing old brown sparrow, +regarded the pert Hortense over his spectacles and under his +spectacles and, finally, through his spectacles. + +"Young folks now 'days," began Pop Henderson dryly, "are so +darned cute and knowin' that when an old fellow cuts in ahead of +'em for once, he likes to hug the joke to himself a while before +he springs it." There was no acid in his tone. He was beaming +very benignantly down upon the little blond stenographer. "You +say that Mrs. Mack is absent-minded-like and dreamy, and that +young T. A. acts like he'd swallowed an electric battery. Well, +when it comes to that, I've seen you many a time, when you didn't +know any one was lookin', just sitting there at your typewriter, +with your hands kind of poised halfway, and your lips sort of +parted, and your eyes just gazing away somewhere off in the +distance for fifteen minutes at a stretch. And out there in the +shipping-room Henry's singing like a whole minstrel troupe all +day long, when he isn't whistlin' so loud you can hear him over +'s far as Eighth Avenue." Then, as the red surged up through +the girl's fair skin, "Well?" drawled old Pop Henderson, and +the dry chuckle threatened again. "We-e-ell?" + +"Why, Pop Henderson!" exploded Miss Kelly from her cage. +"Why--Pop--Henderson!" + +In those six words the brisk and agile-minded Miss Kelly +expressed the surprise and the awed conviction of the office +staff. + +Pop Henderson trotted over to the water-cooler, drew a brimming +glass, drank it off, and gave vent to a great exhaust of breath. +He tried not to strut as he crossed back to his desk, climbed his +stool, adjusted his eye-shade, and, with a last throaty chuckle, +plunged into his books again. + +But his words already were working their wonders. The office, +after the first shock, was flooded with a new atmosphere--a +subtle, pervasive air of hushed happiness, of tender solicitude. +It went about like a mother who has found her child asleep at +play, and who steals away atiptoe, finger on lip, lips smiling +tenderly. + +The delicate antennae of Emma McChesney's mind sensed the change. + +Perhaps she read something in the glowing eyes of her sister-in- +love, Hortense. Perhaps she caught a new tone in Miss Kelly's +voice or the forewoman's. Perhaps a whisper from the outer +office reached her desk. The very afternoon of Pop Henderson's +electrifying speech, Mrs. McChesney crossed to T. A. Buck's +office, shut the door after her, lowered her voice discreetly, +and said, + +"T. A., they're on." + +"What makes you think so?" + +"Nothing. That is, nothing definite. No man-reason. Just a +woman-reason." + +T. A. Buck strolled over to her, smiling. + +"I haven't known you all this time without having learned that +that's reason enough. And if they really do know, I'm glad." + +"But we didn't want them to know. Not yet--until--until just +before the----" + +T. A. Buck laid his hands lightly on Emma McChesney's shoulders. +Emma McChesney promptly reached up and removed them. + +"There you are!" exclaimed Buck, and rammed the offending hands +into his pockets. + +"That's why I'm glad they know--if they really do know. I'm no +actor. I'm a skirt-and-lingerie manufacturer. For the last six +weeks, instead of being allowed to look at you with the +expression that a man naturally wears when he's looking at the +woman he's going to marry, what have I had to do? Glare, that's +what! Scowl! Act like a captain of finance when I've felt like +a Romeo! I've had to be dry, terse, businesslike, when I was +bursting with adjectives that had nothing to do with business. +You've avoided my office as you would a small-pox camp. You've +greeted me with a what-can-I-do-for-you air when I've dared to +invade yours. You couldn't have been less cordial to a book +agent. If it weren't for those two hours you grant me in the +evening, I'd--I'd blow up with a loud report, that's what. +I'd----" + +"Now, now, T. A.!" interrupted Emma McChesney soothingly, and +patted one gesticulating arm. "It has been a bit of a +strain--for both of us. But, you know, we agreed it would be +best this way. We've ten days more to go. Let's stick it out as +we've begun. It has been best for us, for the office, for the +business. The next time you find yourself choked up with a stock +of fancy adjectives, write a sonnet to me. Work 'em off that +way." + +T. A. Buck stood silent a moment, regarding her with a +concentration that would have unnerved a woman less poised. + +"Emma McChesney, when you talk like that, so coolly, so evenly, +so--so darned mentally, I sometimes wonder if you really----" + +"Don't say it, T. A. Because you don't mean it. I've had to +fight for most of my happiness. I've never before found it ready +at hand. I've always had to dig for it with a shovel and a spade +and a pickax, and then blast. I had almost twenty years of +that-- from the time I was eighteen until I was thirty-eight. +It taught me to take my happiness seriously and my troubles +lightly." She shut her eyes for a moment, and her voice was +very low and very deep and very vibrant. "So, when I'm coolest +and evenest and most mental, T. A., you may know that I've struck +gold." + +A great glow illumined Buck's fine eyes. He took two quick steps +in her direction. But Emma McChesney, one hand on the door-knob, +warned him off with the other. + +"Hey--wait a minute!" pleaded Buck. + +"Can't. I've a fitting at the tailor's at three-thirty--my new +suit. Wait till you see it!" + +"The dickens you have! But so have I"-- he jerked out his +watch--"at three-thirty! It's the suit I'm going to wear when I +travel as a blushing bridegroom." + +"So's mine. And look here, T. A.! We can't both leave this +place for a fitting. It's absurd. If this keeps on, it will +break up the business. We'll have to get married one at a +time--or, at least, get our trousseaux one at a time. What's +your suit?" + +"Sort of brown." + +"Brown? So's mine! Good heavens, T. A., we'll look like a +minstrel troupe!" + + +Buck sighed resignedly. + +"If I telephone my tailor that I can't make it until +four-thirty, will you promise to be back by that time?" + +"Yes; but remember, if your bride appears in a skirt that sags +in the back or a coat that bunches across the shoulders, the +crime will lie at your door." + +So it was that the lynx-eyed office staff began to wonder if, +after all, Pop Henderson was the wizard that he had claimed to +be. + +During working hours, Mrs. McChesney held rigidly to business. +Her handsome partner tried bravely to follow her example. If he +failed occasionally, perhaps Emma McChesney was not so displeased +as she pretended to be. A business discussion, deeply +interesting to both, was likely to run thus: + +Buck, entering her office briskly, papers in hand: "Mrs. +McChesney--ahem!--I have here a letter from Singer & French, +Columbus, Ohio. They ask for an extension. They've had ninety +days." + +"That's enough. That firm's slow pay, and always will be until +old Singer has the good taste and common sense to retire. It +isn't because the stock doesn't move. Singer simply believes in +not paying for anything until he has to. If I were you, I'd +write him that this is a business house, not a charitable +institution---- No, don't do that. It isn't politic. But you +know what I mean." + +"H'm; yes." A silence. "Emma, that's a fiendishly becoming +gown." + +"Now, T. A.!" + +"But it is! It--it's so kind of loose, and yet clinging, and +those white collar-and-cuff things----" + +"T. A. Buck, I've worn this thing down to the office every day +for a month. It shines in the back. Besides, you promised not +to----" + +"Oh, darn it all, Emma, I'm human, you know! How do you suppose +I can stand here and look at you and not----" + +Emma McChesney (pressing the buzzer that summons Hortense): +"You know, Tim, I don't exactly hate you this morning, either. +But business is business. Stop looking at me like that!" Then, +to Hortense, in the doorway: "Just take this letter, Miss +Stotz-Singer & French, Columbus, Ohio. Dear Sirs: Yours of the +tenth at hand. Period. Regarding your request for further +extension we wish to say that, in view of the fact----" + +T. A. Buck, half resentful, half amused, wholly admiring, would +disappear. But Hortense, eyes demurely cast down at her +notebook, was not deceived. + +"Say," she confided to Miss Kelly, "they think they've got me +fooled. But I'm wise. Don't I know? When Henry passes through +the office here, from the shipping-room, he looks at me just as +cool and indifferent. Before we announced it, we had you all +guessing, didn't we? But I can see something back of that look +that the rest of you can't get. Well, when Mr. Buck looks at +her, I can see the same thing in his eyes. Say, when it comes to +seeing the love-light through the fog, I'm there with the +spy-glass." + +If Emma McChesney held herself well in leash during the busy day, +she relished her happiness none the less when she could allow +herself the full savor of it. When a girl of eighteen she had +married a man of the sort that must put whisky into his stomach +before the machinery of his day would take up its creaking round. + +Out of the degradation of that marriage she had emerged +triumphantly, sweet and unsullied, and she had succeeded in +bringing her son, Jock McChesney, out into the clear sunlight +with her. + +The evenings spent with T. A. Buck, the man of fine instincts, of +breeding, of proven worth, of rare tenderness, filled her with a +great peace and happiness. When doubts assailed her, it was not +for herself but for him. Sometimes the fear would clutch her as +they sat before the fire in the sitting-room of her comfortable +little apartment. She would voice those fears for the very joy +of having them stilled. + +"T. A., this is too much happiness. I'm--I'm afraid. After +all, you're a young man, though you are a bit older than I in +actual years. But men of your age marry girls of eighteen. +You're handsome. And you've brains, family, breeding, money. +Any girl in New York would be glad to marry you--those tall, +slim, exquisite young girls. Young! And well bred, and poised +and fresh and sweet and lovable. You see them every day on Fifth +Avenue, exquisitely dressed, entirely desirable. They make me +feel--old--old and battered. I've sold goods on the road. I've +fought and worked and struggled. And it has left its mark. I +did it for the boy, God bless him! And I'm glad I did it. But +it put me out of the class of that girl you see on----" + +"Yes, Emma; you're not at all in the class with that girl you +see every day on Fifth Avenue. Fifth Avenue's full of +her--hundreds of her, thousands of her. Perhaps, five years ago, +before I had worked side by side with you, I might have been +attracted by that girl you see every day on Fifth Avenue. You +don't see a procession of Emma McChesneys every day on Fifth +Avenue--not by a long shot! Why? Because there's only one of +her. She doesn't come in dozen lots. I know that that girl you +see every day on Fifth Avenue is all that I deserve. But, by +some heaven-sent miracle, I'm to have this Emma McChesney woman! +I don't know how it came to be true. I don't deserve it. But it +is true, and that's enough for me." + +Emma McChesney would look up at him, eyes wet, mouth smiling. + +"T. A., you're balm and myrrh and incense and meat and drink to +me. I wish I had words to tell you what I'm thinking now. But I +haven't. So I'll just cover it up. We both know it's there. +And I'll tell you that you make love like a `movie' hero. Yes, +you do! Better than a `movie' hero, because, in the films, the +heroine always has to turn to face the camera, which makes it +necessary for him to make love down the back of her neck." + +But T. A. Buck was unsmiling. + +"Don't trifle, Emma. And don't think you can fool me that way. +I haven't finished. I want to settle this Fifth Avenue creature +for all time. What I have to say is this: I think you are more +attractive--finer, bigger, more rounded in character and manner, +mellower, sweeter, sounder, with all your angles and corners +rubbed smooth, saner, better poised than any woman I have ever +known. And what I am to-day you have made me, directly and +indirectly, by association and by actual orders, by suggestion, +and by direct contact. What you did for Jock, purposefully and +by force, you did for me, too. Not so directly, perhaps, but +with the same result. Emma McChesney, you've made--actually +made, molded, shaped, and turned out two men. You're the +greatest sculptor that ever lived. You could make a scarecrow in +a field get up and achieve. Everywhere one sees women +over-wrought, over-stimulated, eager, tense. When there appears +one who has herself in leash, balanced, tolerant, poised, sane, +composed, she restores your faith in things. You lean on her, +spiritually. I know I need you more than you need me, Emma. And +I know you won't love me the less for that. There--that's about +all for this evening." + +"I think," breathed Emma McChesney in a choked little voice, +"that that's about--enough." + +Two days before the date set for their very quiet wedding, they +told the heads of office and workroom. Office and workroom, +somewhat moist as to eye and flushed as to cheek and highly +congratulatory, proved their knowingness by promptly presenting +to their employers a very costly and unbelievably hideous set of +mantel ornaments and clock, calculated to strike horror to the +heart of any woman who has lovingly planned the furnishing of her +drawing-room. Pop Henderson, after some preliminary wrestling +with collar, necktie, spectacles, and voice, launched forth on a +presentation speech that threatened to close down the works for +the day. Emma McChesney heard it, tears in her eyes. T. A. Buck +gnawed his mustache. And when Pop Henderson's cracked old voice +broke altogether in the passage that touched on his departed +employer, old T. A. Buck, and the great happiness that this +occasion would have brought him, Emma's hand met young T. A.'s +and rested there. Hortense and Henry, standing very close +together all through the speech, had, in this respect, +anticipated their employers by several minutes. + +They were to be away two weeks only. No one knew just where, +except that some small part of the trip was to be spent on a +flying visit to young Jock McChesney out in Chicago. He himself +was to be married very soon. Emma McChesney had rather startled +her very good- looking husband-to-be by whirling about at him +with, + +"T. A., do you realize that you're very likely to be a +step-grandfather some fine day not so far away!" + +T. A. had gazed at her for a rather shocked moment, swallowed +hard, smiled, and said, + +"Even that doesn't scare me, Emma." + +Everything had been planned down to the last detail. Mrs. +McChesney's little apartment had been subleased, and a very smart +one taken and furnished almost complete, with Annie installed in +the kitchen and a demure parlor-maid engaged. + +"When we come back, we'll come home," T. A. Buck had said. +"Home!" + +There had been much to do, but it had all been done smoothly and +expertly, under the direction of these two who had learned how to +plan, direct, and carry out. + +Then, on the last day, Emma McChesney, visibly perturbed, entered +her partner's office, a letter in her hand. + +"This is ghastly!" she exclaimed. + +Buck pulled out a chair for her. + +"Klein cancel his order again?" + +"No. And don't ask me to sit down. Be thankful that I don't +blow up." + +"Is it as bad as that?" + +"Bad! Here--read that! No, don't read it; I'll tell you. +It'll relieve my feelings. You know how I've been angling and +scheming and contriving and plotting for years to get an +exclusive order from Gage & Fosdick. Of course we've had a nice +little order every few months, but what's that from the biggest +mail-order house in the world? And now, out of a blue sky, comes +this bolt from O'Malley, who buys our stuff, saying that he's +coming on the tenth--that's next week--that he's planned to +establish our line with their trade, and that he wants us to be +prepared for a record-breaking order. I've fairly prayed for +this. And now--what shall we do?" + +"Do?"--smoothly--"just write the gentleman and tell him you're +busy getting married this week and next, and that, by a singular +coincidence, your partner is similarly engaged; that our manager +will attend to him with all care and courtesy, unless he can +postpone his trip until our return. Suggest that he call around +a week or two later." + +"T. A. Buck, I know it isn't considered good form to rage and +glare at one's fiance on the eve of one's wedding-day. If this +were a week earlier or a week later, I'd be tempted to--shake +you!" + +Buck stood up, came over to her, and laid a hand very gently on +her arm. With the other hand he took the letter from her +fingers. + +"Emma, you're tired, and a little excited. You've been under an +unusual physical and mental strain for the last few weeks. Give +me that letter. I'll answer it. This kind of thing"--he held +up the letter--"has meant everything to you. If it had not, +where would I be to-day? But to-night, Emma, it doesn't mean a +thing. Not--one thing." + +Slowly Emma McChesney's tense body relaxed. A great sigh that +had in it weariness and relief and acquiescence came from her. +She smiled ever so faintly. + +"I've been a ramrod so long it's going to be hard to learn to be +a clinging vine. I've been my own support for so many years, I +don't use a trellis very gracefully--yet. But I think I'll get +the hang of it very soon." + +She turned toward the door, crossed to her own office, looked all +about at the orderly, ship- shape room that reflected her +personality--as did any room she occupied. + +"Just the same," she called out, over her shoulder, to Buck in +the doorway, "I hate like fury to see that order slide." + +In hat and coat and furs she stood a moment, her fingers on the +electric switch, her eyes very bright and wide. The memories of +ten years, fifteen years, twenty years crowded up around her and +filled the little room. Some of them were golden and some of +them were black; a few had power to frighten her, even now. So +she turned out the light, stood for just another moment there in +the darkness, then stepped out into the hall, closed the door +softly behind her, and stood face to face with the lettering on +the glass panel of the door--the lettering that spelled the name, +"MRS. MCCHESNEY." + +T. A. Buck watched her in silence. She reached up with one +wavering forefinger and touched each of the twelve letters, one +after the other. Then she spread her hand wide, blotting out the +second word. And when she turned away, one saw--she being Emma +McChesney, and a woman, and very tired and rather sentimental, +and a bit hysterical and altogether happy--that, though she was +smiling, her eyes were wet. + + +In her ten years on the road, visiting town after town, catching +trains, jolting about in rumbling hotel 'buses or musty-smelling +small- town hacks, living in hotels, good, bad, and indifferent, +Emma McChesney had come upon hundreds of rice-strewn, +ribbon-bedecked bridal couples. She had leaned from her window +at many a railway station to see the barbaric and cruel old +custom of bride-and-bridegroom baiting. She had smiled very +tenderly--and rather sadly, and hopefully, too--upon the boy and +girl who rushed breathless into the car in a flurry of white +streamers, flowers, old shoes, laughter, cheers, last messages. +Now, as in a dream, she found herself actually of these. Of +rice, old shoes, and badinage there had been none, it is true. +She stood quietly by while Buck attended to their trunks, just as +she had seen it done by hundreds of helpless little cotton-wool +women who had never checked a trunk in their lives--she, who had +spent ten years of her life wrestling with trunks and baggagemen +and porters. Once there was some trifling mistake--Buck's fault. +Emma, with her experience of the road, saw his error. She could +have set him right with a word. It was on the tip of her tongue. +By sheer force of will she withheld that word, fought back the +almost overwhelming inclination to take things in hand, set them +right. It was just an incident, almost trifling in itself. But +its import was tremendous, for her conduct, that moment, shaped +the happiness of their future life together. + +Emma had said that there would be no rude awakenings for them, no +startling shocks. + +"There isn't a thing we don't know about each other," she had +said. "We each know the other's weaknesses and strength. I +hate the way you gnaw your mustache when you're troubled, and I +think the fuss you make when the waiter pours your coffee without +first having given you sugar and cream is the most absurd thing +I've ever seen. But, then, I know how it annoys you to see me +sitting with one slipper dangling from my toe, when I'm +particularly comfortable and snug. You know how I like my eggs, +and you think it's immoral. I suppose we're really set in our +ways. It's going to be interesting to watch each other shift." + +"Just the same," Buck said, "I didn't dream there was any +woman living who could actually make a Pullman drawing-room look +homelike." + +"Any woman who has spent a fourth of her life in hotels and +trains learns that trick. She has to. If she happens to be the +sort that likes books and flowers and sewing, she carries some of +each with her. And one book, one rose, and one piece of +unfinished embroidery would make an oasis in the Sahara Desert +look homelike." + +It was on the westbound train that they encountered Sam--Sam of +the rolling eye, the genial grin, the deft hand. Sam was known +to every hardened traveler as the porter de luxe of the road. +Sam was a diplomat, a financier, and a rascal. He never forgot a +face. He never forgave a meager tip. The passengers who +traveled with him were at once his guests and his victims. + +Therefore his, "Good evenin', Mis' McChesney, ma'am. Good +even'! Well, it suh't'nly has been a long time sense Ah had the +pleasuh of yoh presence as passengah, ma'am. Ah sure am----" + +The slim, elegant figure of T. A. Buck appeared in the doorway. +Sam's rolling eye became a thing on ball bearings. His teeth +flashed startlingly white in the broadest of grins. He took +Buck's hat, ran a finger under its inner band, and shook it very +gently. + +"What's the idea?" inquired Buck genially. "Are you a +combination porter and prestidigitator?" + +Sam chuckled his infectious negro chuckle. + +"Well, no, sah! Ah wouldn' go's fah as t' say that, sah. But +Ah hab been known to shake rice out of a gen'lman's ordinary, +ever'-day, black derby hat." + +"Get out!" laughed T. A. Buck, as Sam ducked. + +"You may as well get used to it," smiled Emma, "because I'm +known to every train-conductor, porter, hotel-clerk, +chamber-maid, and bell-boy between here and the Great Lakes." + +It was Sam who proved himself hero of the honeymoon, for he saved +T. A. Buck from continuing his journey to Chicago brideless. +Fifteen minutes earlier, Buck had gone to the buffet-car for a +smoke. At Cleveland, Emma, looking out of the car window, saw a +familiar figure pacing up and down the station platform. It was +that dapper and important little Irishman, O'Malley, buyer for +Gage & Fosdick, the greatest mail-order house in the +world--O'Malley, whose letter T. A. Buck had answered; O'Malley, +whose order meant thousands. He was on his way to New York, of +course. + +In that moment Mrs. T. A. Buck faded into the background and Emma +McChesney rose up in her place. She snatched hat and coat and +furs, put them on as she went down the long aisle, swung down the +car steps, and flew down the platform to the unconscious +O'Malley. He was smoking, all unconscious. The Fates had +delivered him into her expert hands. She knew those kindly +sisters of old, and she was the last to refuse their largesse. + +"Mr. O'Malley!" + +He wheeled. + +"Mrs. McChesney!" He had just a charming trace of a brogue. +His enemies said he assumed it. "Well, who was I thinkin' of +but you a minute ago. What----" + +"I'm on my way to Chicago. Saw you from the car window. You're +on the New York train? I thought so. Tell me, you're surely +seeing our man, aren't you?" + +O'Malley's smiling face clouded. He was a temperamental +Irishman--Ted O'Malley-- with ideas on the deference due him and +his great house. + +"I'll tell you the truth, Mrs. McChesney. I had a letter from +your Mr. Buck. It wasn't much of a letter to a man like me, +representing a house like Gage & Fosdick. It said both heads of +the firm would be out of town, and would I see the manager. +Me--see the manager! Well, thinks I, if that's how important +they think my order, then they'll not get it--that's all. I've +never yet----" + +"Dear Mr. O'Malley, please don't be offended. As a McChesney to +an O'Malley, I want to tell you that I've just been married." + +"Married! God bless me--to----" + +"To T. A. Buck, of course. He's on that train. He----" + +She turned toward the train. And as she turned it began to move, +ever so gently. At the same moment there sped toward her, with +unbelievable swiftness, the figure of Sam the porter, his eyes +all whites. By one arm he grasped her, and half carried, half +jerked her to the steps of the moving train, swung her up to the +steps like a bundle of rags, caught the rail by a miracle, and +stood, grinning and triumphant, gazing down at the panting +O'Malley, who was running alongside the train. + +"Back in a week. Will you wait for us in New York?" called +Emma, her breath coming fast. She was trembling, too, and +laughing. + +"Will I wait!" called back the puffing O'Malley, every bit of +the Irish in him beaming from his eyes. "I'll be there when you +get back as sure as your name's McBuck." + +From his pocket he took a round, silver Western dollar and, still +running, tossed it to the toothy Sam. That peerless porter +caught it, twirled it, kissed it, bowed, and grinned afresh as +the train glided out of the shed. + +Emma, flushed, smiling, flew up the aisle. + +Buck, listening to her laughing, triumphant account of her +hairbreadth, harum-scarum adventure, frowned before he smiled. + +"Emma, how could you do it! At least, why didn't you send back +for me first?" + +Emma smiled a little tremulously. + +"Don't be angry. You see, dear boy, I've only been your wife +for a week. But I've been Featherloom petticoats for over +fifteen years. It's a habit." + +Just how strong and fixed a habit, she proved to herself a little +more than a week later. It was the morning of their first +breakfast in the new apartment. You would have thought, to see +them over their coffee and eggs and rolls, that they had been +breakfasting together thus for years--Annie was so at home in her +new kitchen; the deft little maid, in her crisp white, fitted so +perfectly into the picture. Perhaps the thing that T. A. Buck +said, once the maid left them alone, might have given an outsider +the cue. + +"You remind me of a sweetpea, Emma. One of those crisp, erect, +golden-white, fresh, fragrant sweetpeas. I think it is the +slenderest, sweetest, neatest, trimmest flower in the world, so +delicately set on its stem, and yet so straight, so +independent." + +"T. A., you say such dear things to me!" + +No; they had not been breakfasting together for years. + +"I'm glad you're not one of those women that wears a frowsy, +lacy, ribbony, what-do-you- call-'em-boudoir-cap--down to +breakfast. They always make me think of uncombed hair. That's +just one reason why I'm glad." + +"And I'm glad," said Emma, looking at his clear eyes and steady +hand and firm skin, "for a number of reasons. One of them is +that you're not the sort of man who's a grouch at breakfast." + +When he had hat and coat and stick in hand, and had kissed her +good-by and reached the door and opened it, he came back again, +as is the way of bridegrooms. But at last the door closed behind +him. + +Emma sat there a moment, listening to his quick, light step down +the corridor, to the opening of the lift door, to its metallic +closing. She sat there, in the sunshiny dining-room, in her +fresh, white morning gown. She picked up her newspaper, opened +it; scanned it, put it down. For years, now, she had read her +newspaper in little gulps on the way downtown in crowded subway +or street-car. She could not accustom herself to this leisurely +scanning of the pages. She rose, went to the window, came back +to the table, stood there a moment, her eyes fixed on something +far away. + +The swinging door between dining-room and butler's pantry opened. +Annie, in her neat blue-and-white stripes, stood before her. + +"Shall it be steak or chops to-night, Mrs. Mc--Buck?" + +Emma turned her head in Annie's direction--then her eyes. The +two actions were distinct and separate. + +"Steak or----" There was a little bewildered look in her eyes. + +Her mind had not yet focused on the question. "Steak--oh! Oh, +yes, of course! Why--why, Annie"--and the splendid +thousand-h.-p. mind brought itself down to the settling of this +butter-churning, two-h.-p. question--"why, Annie, considering +all things, I think we'll make it filet with mushrooms." + + + +IV + +BLUE SERGE + +For ten years, Mrs. Emma McChesney's home had been a +wardrobe-trunk. She had taken her family life at second hand. +Four nights out of the seven, her bed was "Lower Eight," and +her breakfast, as many mornings, a cinder-strewn, lukewarm +horror, taken tete-a-tete with a sleepy-eyed stranger and +presided over by a white-coated, black-faced bandit, to whom a +coffee-slopped saucer was a matter of course. + +It had been her habit during those ten years on the road as +traveling saleswoman for the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, to avoid the discomfort of the rapidly chilling car by +slipping early into her berth. There, in kimono, if not in +comfort, she would shut down the electric light with a snap, +raise the shade, and, propped up on one elbow, watch the little +towns go by. They had a wonderful fascination for her, those +Middle Western towns, whose very names had a comfortable, home- +like sound--Sandusky, Galesburg, Crawfordsville, Appleton--very +real towns, with very real people in them. Peering wistfully out +through the dusk, she could get little intimate glimpses of the +home life of these people as the night came on. In those modest +frame houses near the station they need not trouble to pull down +the shades as must their cautious city cousins. As the train +slowed down, there could be had a glimpse of a matronly housewife +moving deftly about in the kitchen's warm-yellow glow, a man +reading a paper in slippered, shirt-sleeved comfort, a pig-tailed +girl at the piano, a woman with a baby in her arms, or a family +group, perhaps, seated about the table, deep in an after-supper +conclave. It had made her homeless as she was homesick. + +Emma always liked that picture best. Her keen, imaginative mind +could sense the scene, could actually follow the trend of the +talk during this, the most genial, homely, soul-cheering hour of +the day. The trifling events of the last twelve hours in +schoolroom, in store, in office, in street, in kitchen loom up +large as they are rehearsed in that magic, animated, cozy moment +just before ma says, with a sigh: + +"Well, folks, go on into the sitting-room. Me and Nellie've got +to clear away." + +Just silhouettes as the train flashed by--these small-town +people--but very human, very enviable to Emma McChesney. + +"They're real," she would say. "They're regular, +three-meals-a-day people. I've been peeking in at their windows +for ten years, and I've learned that it is in these towns that +folks really live. The difference between life here and life in +New York is the difference between area and depth. D'you see +what I mean? In New York, they live by the mile, and here they +live by the cubic foot. Well, I'd rather have one juicy, thick +club-steak than a whole platterful of quarter-inch. It's the +same idea." + +To those of her business colleagues whose habit it was to lounge +in the hotel window with sneering comment upon the small-town +procession as it went by, Emma McChesney had been wont to say: + +"Don't sneer at Main Street. When you come to think of it, +isn't it true that Fifth Avenue, any bright winter afternoon +between four and six, is only Main Street on a busy day +multiplied by one thousand?" + +Emma McChesney was not the sort of woman to rail at a fate that +had placed her in the harness instead of in the carriage. But +during all the long years of up-hill pull, from the time she +started with a humble salary in the office of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company, through the years spent on the +road, up to the very time when the crown of success came to her +in the form of the secretaryship of the prosperous firm of T. A. +Buck, there was a minor but fixed ambition in her heart. That +same ambition is to be found deep down in the heart of every +woman whose morning costume is a tailor suit, whose newspaper +must be read in hurried snatches on the way downtown in crowded +train or car, and to whom nine A.M. spells "Business." + +"In fifteen years," Emma McChesney used to say, "I've never +known what it is to loll in leisure. I've never had a chance to +luxuriate. Sunday? To a working woman, Sunday is for the +purpose of repairing the ravages of the other six days. By the +time you've washed your brushes, mended your skirt-braid, darned +your stockings and gloves, looked for gray hairs and crows'-feet, +and skimmed the magazine section, it's Monday." + +It was small wonder that Emma McChesney's leisure had been +limited. In those busy years she had not only earned the living +for herself and her boy; she had trained that boy into manhood +and placed his foot on the first rung of business success. She +had transformed the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company from +a placidly mediocre concern to a thriving, flourishing, +nationally known institution. All this might have turned another +woman's head. It only served to set Emma McChesney's more +splendidly on her shoulders. Not too splendidly, however; for, +with her marriage to her handsome business partner, T. A. Buck, +that well-set, independent head was found to fit very cozily into +the comfortable hollow formed by T. A. Buck's right arm. + +"Emma," Buck had said, just before their marriage, "what is +the arrangement to be after--after----" + +"Just what it is now, I suppose," Emma had replied, "except +that we'll come down to the office together." + +He had regarded her thoughtfully for a long minute. Then, +"Emma, for three months after our marriage will you try being +just Mrs. T. A. Buck?" + +"You mean no factory, no Featherlooms, no dictation, no business +bothers!" Her voice was a rising scale of surprise. + +"Just try it for three months, with the privilege of a lifetime, +if you like it. But try it. I--I'd like to see you there when I +leave, Emma. I'd like to have you there when I come home. I +suppose I sound like a selfish Turk, but----" + +"You sound like a regular husband," Emma McChesney had +interrupted, "and I love you for it. Now listen, T. A. For +three whole months I'm going to be what the yellow novels used to +call a doll-wife. I'm going to meet you at the door every night +with a rose in my hair. I shall wear pink things with lace +ruffles on 'em. Don't you know that I've been longing to do just +those things for years and years? I'm going to blossom out into +a beauty. Watch me! I've never had time to study myself. I'll +hold shades of yellow and green and flesh-color up to my face to +see which brings out the right tints. I'm going to gaze at +myself through half-closed eyes to see which shade produces +tawny lights in my hair. Ever since I can remember, I've been so +busy that it has been a question of getting the best possible +garments in the least possible time for the smallest possible +sum. In that case, one gets blue serge. I've worn blue serge +until it feels like a convict's uniform. I'm going to blossom +out into fawn and green and mauve. I shall get evening dresses +with only bead shoulder-straps. I'm going to shop. I've never +really seen Fifth Avenue between eleven and one, when the real +people come out. My views of it have been at nine A.M. when the +office-workers are going to work, and at five- thirty when they +are going home. I will now cease to observe the proletariat and +mingle with the predatory. I'll probably go in for those tiffin +things at the Plaza. If I do, I'll never be the same woman +again." + +Whereupon she paused with dramatic effect. + +To all of which T. A. Buck had replied: + +"Go as far as you like. Take fencing lessons, if you want to, +or Sanskrit. You've been a queen bee for so many years that I +think the role of drone will be a pleasant change. Let me +shoulder the business worries for a while. You've borne them +long enough." + +"It's a bargain. For three months I shall do nothing more +militant than to pick imaginary threads off your coat lapel and +pout when you mention business. At the end of those three months +we'll go into private session, compare notes, and determine +whether the plan shall cease or become permanent. Shake hands on +it." + +They shook hands solemnly. As they did so, a faint shadow of +doubt hovered far, far back in the depths of T. A. Buck's fine +eyes. And a faint, inscrutable smile lurked in the corners of +Emma's lips. + +So it was that Emma McChesney, the alert, the capable, the brisk, +the business-like, assumed the role of Mrs. T. A. Buck, the +leisurely, the languid, the elegant. She, who formerly, at +eleven in the morning, might have been seen bent on selling the +best possible bill of spring Featherlooms to Joe Greenbaum, of +Keokuk, Iowa, could now be found in a modiste's +gray-and-raspberry salon, being draped and pinned and fitted. +She, whose dynamic force once charged the entire office and +factory with energy and efficiency, now distributed a tithe of +that priceless vigor here, a tithe there, a tithe everywhere, and +thus broke the very backbone of its power. + +She had never been a woman to do things by halves. What she +undertook to do she did thoroughly and whole-heartedly. This +principle she applied to her new mode of life as rigidly as she +had to the old. + +That first month slipped magically by. Emma was too much a woman +not to feel a certain exquisite pleasure in the selecting of +delicate and becoming fabrics. There was a thrill of novelty in +being able to spend an hour curled up with a book after lunch, to +listen to music one afternoon a week, to drive through the +mistily gray park; to walk up the thronged, sparkling Avenue, +pausing before its Aladdin's Cave windows. Simple enough +pleasures, and taken quite as a matter of course by thousands of +other women who had no work-filled life behind them to use as +contrast. + +She plunged into her new life whole-heartedly. The first new +gown was exciting. It was a velvet affair with furs, and +gratifyingly becoming. Her shining blond head rose above the +soft background of velvet and fur with an effect to distract the +least observing. + +"Like it?" she had asked Buck, turning slowly, frankly sure of +herself. + +"You're wonderful in it," said T. A. Buck. "Say, Emma, where's +that blue thing you used to wear--the one with +the white cuffs and collar, and the little blue hat with the +what-cha-ma-call-ems on it?" + +"T. A. Buck, you're--you're--well, you're a man, that's what you +are! That blue thing was worn threadbare in the office, and I +gave it to the laundress's niece weeks ago." Small wonder her +cheeks took on a deeper pink. + +"Oh," said Buck, unruffled, "too bad! There was something +about that dress--I don't know----" + +At the first sitting of the second gown, Emma revolted openly. + +On the floor at Emma's feet there was knotted into a +contortionistic attitude a small, wiry, impolite person named +Smalley. Miss Smalley was an artist in draping and knew it. She +was the least fashionable person in all that smart dressmaking +establishment. She refused to notice the +corset-coiffure-and-charmeuse edict that governed all other +employees in the shop. In her shabby little dress, her +steel-rimmed spectacles, her black-sateen apron, Smalley might +have passed for a Bird Center home dressmaker. Yet, given a yard +or two or three of satin and a saucer of pins, Smalley could make +the dumpiest of debutantes look like a fragile flower. + +At a critical moment Emma stirred. Handicapped as she was by a +mouthful of nineteen pins and her bow-knot attitude, Smalley +still could voice a protest. + +"Don't move!" she commanded, thickly. + +"Wait a minute," Emma said, and moved again, more disastrously +than before. "Don't you think it's too--too young?" + +She eyed herself in the mirror anxiously, then looked down at +Miss Smalley's nut-cracker face that was peering up at her, its +lips pursed grotesquely over the pins. + +"Of course it is," mumbled Miss Smalley. "Everybody's clothes +are too young for 'em nowadays. The only difference between the +dresses we make for girls of sixteen and the dresses we make for +their grandmothers of sixty is that the sixty-year-old ones want +'em shorter and lower, and they run more to rose-bud trimming." + +Emma surveyed the acid Miss Smalley with a look that was half +amused, half vexed, wholly determined. + +"I shan't wear it. Heaven knows I'm not sixty, but I'm not +sixteen either! I don't want to be." + +Miss Smalley, doubling again to her task, flung upward a grudging +compliment. + +"Well, anyway, you've got the hair and the coloring and the +figure for it. Goodness knows you look young enough!" + +"That's because I've worked hard all my life," retorted Emma, +almost viciously. "Another month of this leisure and I'll be as +wrinkled as the rest of them." + +Smalley's magic fingers paused in their manipulation of a soft +fold of satin. + +"Worked? Earned a living? Used your wits and brains every day +against the wits and brains of other folks?" + +"Every day." + +Into the eyes of Miss Smalley, the artist in draping, there crept +the shrewd twinkle of Miss Smalley, the successful woman in +business. She had been sitting back on her knees, surveying her +handiwork through narrowed lids. Now she turned her gaze on +Emma, who was smiling down at her. + +"Then for goodness' sake don't stop! I've found out that work +is a kind of self-oiler. If you're used to it, the minute you +stop you begin to get rusty, and your hinges creak and you clog +up. And the next thing you know, you break down. Work that you +like to do is a blessing. It keeps you young. When my mother +was my age, she was crippled with rheumatism, and all gnarled up, +and quavery, and all she had to look forward to was death. Now +me--every time the styles in skirts change I get a new hold on +life. And on a day when I can make a short, fat woman look like +a tall, thin woman, just by sitting here on my knees with a +handful of pins, and giving her the line she needs, I go home +feeling like I'd just been born." + +"I know that feeling," said Emma, in her eyes a sparkle that +had long been absent. "I've had it when I've landed a +thousand-dollar Featherloom order from a man who has assured me +that he isn't interested in our line." + +At dinner that evening, Emma's gown was so obviously not of the +new crop that even her husband's inexpert eye noted it. + +"That's not one of the new ones, is it?" + +"This! And you a manufacturer of skirts!" + +"What's the matter with the supply of new dresses? Isn't there +enough to go round?" + +"Enough! I've never had so many new gowns in my life. The +trouble is that I shan't feel at home in them until I've had 'em +all dry-cleaned at least once." + +During the second month, there came a sudden, sharp change in +skirt modes. For four years women had been mincing along in +garments so absurdly narrow that each step was a thing to be +considered, each curbing or car-step demanding careful +negotiation. Now, Fashion, in her freakiest mood, commanded a +bewildering width of skirt that was just one remove from the +flaring hoops of Civil War days. Emma knew what that meant for +the Featherloom workrooms and selling staff. New designs, new +models, a shift in prices, a boom for petticoats, for four years +a garment despised. + +A hundred questions were on the tip of Emma's tongue; a hundred +suggestions flashed into her keen mind; there occurred to her a +wonderful design for a new model which should be full and flaring +without being bulky and uncomfortable as were the wide petticoats +of the old days. + +But a bargain was a bargain. Still, Emma Buck was as human as +Emma McChesney had been. She could not resist a timid, + +"T. A., are you--that is--I was just wondering--you're making +'em wide, I suppose, for the spring trade." + +A queer look flashed into T. A. Buck's eyes --a relieved look +that was as quickly replaced by an expression both baffled and +anxious. + +"Why--a--mmmm--yes--oh, yes, we're making 'em up wide, but----" + +"But what?" Emma leaned forward, tense. + +"Oh, nothing--nothing." + +During the second month there came calling on Emma, those solid +and heavy New Yorkers, with whom the Buck family had been on +friendly terms for many years. They came at the correct hour, in +their correct motor or conservative broughams, wearing their +quietly correct clothes, and Emma gave them tea, and they talked +on every subject from suffrage to salad dressings, and from war +to weather, but never once was mention made of business. And +Emma McChesney's life had been interwoven with business for more +than fifteen years. + +There were dinners--long, heavy, correct dinners. Emma, very +well dressed, bright-eyed, alert, intelligent, vital, became very +popular at these affairs, and her husband very proud of her +popularity. And if any one as thoroughly alive as Mrs. T. A. +Buck could have been bored to extinction by anything, then those +dinners would have accomplished the deadly work. + +"T. A.," she said one evening, after a particularly large +affair of this sort, "T. A., have you ever noticed anything +about me that is different from other women?" + +"Have I? Well, I should say I----" + +"Oh, I don't mean what you mean, dear-- thanks just the same. I +mean those women tonight. They all seem to `go in' for something +--votes or charity or dancing or social service, or +something--even the girls. And they all sounded so amateurish, +so untrained, so unprepared, yet they seemed to be dreadfully in +earnest." + +"This is the difference," said T. A. Buck. "You've rubbed up +against life, and you know. They've always been sheltered, but now +they want to know. Well, naturally they're going to bungle and +bump their heads a good many times before they really find out." + +"Anyway," retorted Emma, "they want to know. That's +something. It's better to have bumped your head, even though you +never see what's on the other side of the wall, than never to +have tried to climb it." + +It was in the third week of the third month that Emma encountered +Hortense. Hortense, before her marriage to Henry, the shipping- +clerk, had been a very pretty, very pert, very devoted little +stenographer in the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom +Petticoat Company. She had married just a month after her +employers, and Emma, from the fulness of her own brimming cup of +happiness, had made Hortense happy with a gift of linens and +lingerie and lace of a fineness that Hortense's beauty-loving, +feminine heart could never have hoped for. + +They met in the busy aisle of a downtown department store and +shook hands as do those who have a common bond. + +Hortense, as pretty as ever and as pert, spoke first. + +"I wouldn't have known you, Mrs. Mc-- Buck!" + +"No? Why not?" + +"You look--no one would think you'd ever worked in your life. I +was down at the office the other day for a minute--the first time +since I was married. They told me you weren't there any more." + +"No; I haven't been down since my marriage either. I'm like +you--an elegant lady of leisure." + +Hortense's bright-blue eyes dwelt searchingly on the face of her +former employer. + +"The bunch in the office said they missed you something awful." +Then, in haste: "Oh, I don't mean that Mr. Buck don't make +things go all right. They're awful fond of him. But--I don't +know--Miss Kelly said she never has got over waiting for the +sound of your step down the hall at nine--sort of light and quick +and sharp and busy, as if you couldn't wait till you waded into +the day's work. Do you know what I mean?" + +"I know what you mean," said Emma. + +There was a little pause. The two women so far apart, yet so +near; so different, yet so like, gazed far down into each other's +soul. + +"Miss it, don't you?" said Hortense. + +"Yes; don't you?" + +"Do I! Say----" She turned and indicated the women surging up +and down the store aisles, and her glance and gesture were +replete with contempt. "Say; look at 'em! Wandering around +here, aimless as a lot of chickens in a barnyard. Half of 'em +are here because they haven't got anything else to do. Think of +it! I've watched 'em lots of times. They go pawing over silks +and laces and trimmings just for the pleasure of feeling 'em. +They stand in front of a glass case with a figure in it all +dressed up in satin and furs and jewels, and you'd think they +were worshiping an idol like they used to in the olden days. +They don't seem to have anything to do. Nothing to occupy +their--their heads. Say, if I thought I was going to be like +them in time, I----" + +"Hortense, my dear child, you're--you're happy, aren't you? +Henry----" + +"Well, I should say we are! I'm crazy about Henry, and he +thinks I'm perfect. Honestly, ain't they a scream! They think +they're so big and manly and all, and they're just like kids; +ain't it so? We're living in a four-room apartment in Harlem. +We've got it fixed up too cozy for anything." + +"I'd like to come and see you," said Emma. Hortense opened her +eyes wide. + +"Honestly; if you would----" + +"Let's go up now. I've the car outside." + +"Now! Why I--I'd love it!" + +They chattered like schoolgirls on the way uptown--these two who +had found so much in common. The little apartment reached, +Hortense threw open the door with the confident gesture of the +housekeeper who is not afraid to have her household taken by +surprise --whose housekeeping is an index of character. + +Hortense had been a clean-cut little stenographer. Her +correspondence had always been free from erasures, thumb-marks, +errors. Her four-room flat was as spotless as her typewritten +letters had been. The kitchen shone in its blue and white and +nickel. A canary chirped in the tiny dining-room. There were +books and magazines on the sitting-room table. The bedroom was +brave in its snowy spread and the toilet silver that had been +Henry's gift to her the Christmas they became engaged. + +Emma examined everything, exclaimed over everything, admired +everything. Hortense glowed like a rose. + +"Do you really like it? I like the green velours in the +sitting-room, don't you? It's always so kind and cheerful. +We're not all settled yet. I don't suppose we ever will be. +Sundays, Henry putters around, putting up shelves, and fooling +around with a can of paint. I always tell him he ought to have +lived on a farm, where he'd have elbow-room." + +"No wonder you're so happy and busy," Emma exclaimed, and +patted the girl's fresh, young cheek. + +Hortense was silent a moment. + +"I'm happy," she said, at last, "but I ain't busy. And--well, +if you're not busy, you can't be happy very long, can you?" + +"No," said Emma, "idleness, when you're not used to it, is +misery." + +"There! You've said it! It's like running on half-time when +you're used to a day-and-night shift. Something's lacking. It +isn't that Henry isn't grand to me, because he is. Evenings, +we're so happy that we just sit and grin at each other and half +the time we forget to go to a `movie.' After Henry leaves in the +morning, I get to work. I suppose, in the old days, when women +used to have to chop the kindling, and catch the water for +washing in a rain-barrel, and keep up a fire in the kitchen stove +and do their own bread baking and all, it used to keep 'em +hustling. But, my goodness! A four-room flat for two isn't any +work. By eleven, I'm through. I've straightened everything, +from the bed to the refrigerator; the marketing's done, and the +dinner vegetables are sitting around in cold water. The mending +for two is a joke. Henry says it's a wonder I don't sew +double-breasted buttons on his undershirts." + +Emma was not smiling. But, then, neither was Hortense. She was +talking lightly, seemingly, but her pretty face was quite +serious. + +"The big noise in my day is when Henry comes home at six. That +was all right and natural, I suppose, in those times when a +quilting-bee was a wild afternoon's work, and teaching school +was the most advanced job a woman could hold down." + +Emma was gazing fascinated at the girl's sparkling face. Her own +eyes were very bright, and her lips were parted. + +"Tell me, Hortense," she said now; "what does Henry say to all +this? Have you told him how you feel?" + +"Well, I--I talked to him about it once or twice. I told him +that I've got about twenty-four solid hours a week that I might +be getting fifty cents an hour for. You know, I worked for a +manuscript-typewriting concern before I came over to +Buck's--plays and stories and that kind of thing. They used to +like my work because I never queered their speeches by leaving +out punctuation or mixing up the characters. The manager there +said I could have work any time I wanted it. I've got my own +typewriter. I got it second hand when I first started in. Henry +picks around on it sometimes, evenings. I hardly ever touch it. +It's getting rusty--and so am I." + +"It isn't just the money you want, Hortense? Are you sure?" + +"Of course I'd like the money. That extra coming in would mean +books--I'm crazy about reading, and so is Henry--and theaters and +lots of things we can't afford now. But that isn't all. Henry +don't want to be a shipping-clerk all his life. He's crazy +about mechanics and that kind of stuff. But the books that he +needs cost a lot. Don't you suppose I'd be proud to feel that +the extra money I'd earned would lift him up where he could have +a chance to be something! But Henry is dead set against it. He +says he is the one that's going to earn the money around here. I +try to tell him that I'm used to using my mind. He laughs and +pinches my cheek and tells me to use it thinking about him." She +stopped suddenly and regarded Emma with conscience-stricken +eyes. "You don't think I'm running down Henry, do you? My +goodness, I don't want you to think that I'd change back again +for a million dollars, because I wouldn't." She looked up at +Emma, conscience-stricken. + +Emma came swiftly over and put one hand on the girl's shoulder. + +"I don't think it. Not for a minute. I know that the world is +full of Henrys, and that the number of Hortenses is growing +larger and larger. I don't know if the four-room flats are to +blame, or whether it's just a natural development. But the +Henry-Hortense situation seems to be spreading to the +nine-room-and-three-baths apartments, too." + +Hortense nodded a knowing head. + +"I kind of thought so, from the way you were listening." + +The two, standing there gazing at each other almost shyly, +suddenly began to laugh. The laugh was a safety-valve. Then, +quite as suddenly, both became serious. That seriousness had +been the under-current throughout. + +"I wonder," said Emma very gently, "if a small Henry, some +day, won't provide you with an outlet for all that stored-up +energy." + +Hortense looked up very bravely. + +"Maybe. You--you must have been about my age when your boy was +born. Did he make you feel--different?" + +The shade of sadness that always came at the mention of those +unhappy years of her early marriage crept into Emma's face now. + +"That was not the same, dear," she explained. "I hadn't your +sort of Henry. You see, my boy was my only excuse for living. +You'll never know what that means. And when things grew +altogether impossible, and I knew that I must earn a living for +Jock and myself, I just did it--that's all. I had to." + +Hortense thought that over for one deliberate moment. Her brows +were drawn in a frown. + +"I'll tell you what I think," she announced, at last, "though +I don't know that I can just exactly put it into words. I mean +this: Some people are just bound to--to give, to build up +things, to--well, to manufacture, because they just can't help +it. It's in 'em, and it's got to come out. Dynamos--that's what +Henry's technical books would call them. You're one--a great +big one. I'm one. Just a little tiny one. But it's sparking +away there all the time, and it might as well be put to some use, +mightn't it?" + +Emma bent down and kissed the troubled forehead, and then, very +tenderly, the pretty, puckered lips. + +"Little Hortense," she said, "you're asking a great big +question. I can answer it for myself, but I can't answer it for +you. It's too dangerous. I wouldn't if I could." + +Emma, waiting in the hall for the lift, looked back at the slim +little figure in the doorway. There was a droop to the +shoulders. Emma's heart smote her. + +"Don't bother your head about all this, little girl," she +called back to her. "Just forget to be ambitious and remember +to be happy. That's much the better way." + +Hortense, from the doorway, grinned a rather wicked little grin. + +"When are you going back to the office, Mrs. Buck?" she asked, +quietly enough. + +"What makes you think I'm going back at all?" demanded Emma, +stepping into the shaky little elevator. + +"I don't think it," retorted Hortense, once more the pert. "I +know it." + +Emma knew it, too. She had known it from the moment that she +shook hands in her compact. There was still one week remaining +of the stipulated three months. It seemed to Emma that that one +week was longer than the combined eleven. But she went through +with colors flying. Whatever Emma McChesney Buck did, she did +well. But, then, T. A. Buck had done his part well, too--so well +that, on the final day, Emma felt a sinking at her heart. He +seemed so satisfied with affairs as they were. He was, +apparently, so content to drop all thought of business when he +left the office for his home. + + +Emma had planned a very special little dinner that evening. She +wore a very special gown, too--one of the new ones. T. A. +noticed it at once, and the dinner as well, being that kind of +husband. Still, Annie, the cook, complained later, to the +parlor-maid, about the thanklessness of cooking dinners for folks +who didn't eat more'n a mouthful, anyway. + +Dinner over, + +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. Buck. + +"Light your cigar, T. A.," said Emma. "You'll need it." + +T. A. lighted it with admirable leisureliness, sent out a great +puff of fragrant smoke, and surveyed his wife through half-closed +lids. Beneath his air of ease there was a tension. + +"Well, Emma?" he said again, gently. + +Emma looked at him a moment appreciatively. She had too much +poise and balance and control herself not to recognize and admire +those qualities in others. + +"T. A., if I had been what they call a homebody, we wouldn't be +married to-day, would we?" + +"No." + +"You knew plenty of home-women that you could have married, +didn't you?" + +"I didn't ask them, Emma, but----" + +"You know what I mean. Now listen, T. A.: I've loafed for +three months. I've lolled and lazied and languished. And I've +never been so tired in my life--not even when we were taking +January inventory. Another month of this, and I'd be an old, old +woman. I understand, now, what it is that brings that hard, +tired, stony look into the faces of the idle women. They have to +work so hard to try to keep happy. I suppose if I had been a +homebody all my life, I might be hardened to this kind of +thing. But it's too late now. And I'm thankful for it. Those +women who want to shop and dress and drive and play are welcome +to my share of it. If I am to be punished in the next world for +my wickedness in this, I know what form my torture will take. I +shall have to go from shop to shop with a piece of lace in my +hand, matching a sample of insertion. Fifteen years of being in +the thick of it spoil one for tatting and tea. The world is full +of homebodies, I suppose. And they're happy. I suppose I might +have been one, too, if I hadn't been obliged to get out and +hustle. But it's too late to learn now. Besides, I don't want +to. If I do try, I'll be destroying the very thing that +attracted you to me in the first place. Remember what you said +about the Fifth Avenue girl?" + +"But, Emma," interrupted Buck very quietly, "I don't want you +to try." + +Emma, with a rush of words at her very lips, paused, eyed him for +a doubtful moment, asked a faltering question. + +"But it was your plan--you said you wanted me to be here when +you came home and when you left, didn't you? Do you mean +you----" + +"I mean that I've missed my business partner every minute for +three months. All the time we've been going to those fool +dinners and all that kind of thing, I've been bursting to talk +skirts to you. I--say, Emma, Adler's designed a new model--a +full one, of course, but there's something wrong with it. I +can't put my finger on the flaw, but----" + +Emma came swiftly over to his chair. + +"Make a sketch of it, can't you?" she said. From his pocket +Buck drew a pencil, an envelope, and fell to sketching rapidly, +squinting down through his cigar smoke as he worked. + +"It's like this," he began, absorbed and happy; "you see, +where the fulness begins at the knee----" + +"Yes!" prompted Emma, breathlessly. + +Two hours later they were still bent over the much marked bit of +paper. But their interest in it was not that of those who would +solve a perplexing problem. It was the lingering, satisfied +contemplation of a task accomplished. + +Emma straightened, leaned back, sighed--a victorious, happy sigh. + +"And to think," she said, marveling, "to think that I once +envied the women who had nothing to do but the things I've done +in the last three months!" + +Buck had risen, stretched luxuriously, yawned. Now he came over +to his wife and took her head in his two hands, cozily, and stood +a moment looking into her shining eyes. + +"Emma, I may have mentioned this once or twice before, but +perhaps you'll still be interested to know that I think you're a +wonder. A wonder! You're the----" + +"Oh, well, we won't quarrel about that," smiled Emma brazenly. +"But I wonder if Adler will agree with us when he sees what +we've done to his newest skirt design." + +Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her. She was off down +the hall. Buck, following in a leisurely manner, hands in +pockets, stood in the bedroom door and watched her plunge into +the innermost depths of the clothes-closet. + +"What's the idea, Emma?" + +"Looking for something," came back his wife's muffled tones. + +A long wait. + +"Can I help?" + +"I've got it!" cried Emma, and emerged triumphant, flushed, +smiling, holding a garment at arm's length, aloft. + +"What----" + +Emma shook it smartly, turned it this way and that, held it up +under her chin by the sleeves. + +"Why, girl!" exclaimed Buck, all a-grin, "it's the----" + +"The blue serge," Emma finished for him, "with the white +collars and cuffs. And what's more, young man, it's the little +blue hat with the what-cha-ma-call-ems on it. And praise be! +I'm wearing 'em both down-town to-morrow morning." + + + +V + +"HOOPS, MY DEAR!" + +Emma McChesney Buck always vigorously disclaimed any knowledge of +that dreamy-eyed damsel known as Inspiration. T. A. Buck, her +husband-partner, accused her of being on intimate terms with the +lady. So did the adoring office staff of the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat Company. Out in the workshop itself, the +designers and cutters, those jealous artists of the pencil, +shears, and yardstick, looked on in awed admiration on those rare +occasions when the feminine member of the business took the +scissors in her firm white hands and slashed boldly into a +shimmering length of petticoat-silk. When she put down the great +shears, there lay on the table the detached parts of that which +the appreciative and experienced eyes of the craftsmen knew to be +a new and original variation of that elastic garment known as the +underskirt. + +For weeks preceding one of these cutting- exhibitions, Emma was +likely to be not quite her usual brisk self. A mystic glow +replaced the alert brightness of her eye. Her wide-awake manner +gave way to one of almost sluggish inactivity. + +The outer office, noting these things, would lift its eyebrows +significantly. + +"Another hunch!" it would whisper. "The last time she beat +the rest of the trade by six weeks with that elastic-top gusset." + +"Inspiration working, Emma?" T. A. Buck would ask, noting the +symptoms. + +"It isn't inspiration, T. A. Nothing of the kind! It's just an +attack of imagination, complicated by clothes-instinct." + +"That's all that ails Poiret," Buck would retort. + +Early in the autumn, when women were still walking with an absurd +sidewise gait, like a duck, or a filly that is too tightly +hobbled, the junior partner of the firm began to show +unmistakable signs of business aberration. A blight seemed to +have fallen upon her bright little office, usually humming with +activity. The machinery of her day, ordinarily as noiseless and +well ordered as a thing on ball bearings, now rasped, creaked, +jerked, stood still, jolted on again. A bustling clerk or +stenographer, entering with paper or memorandum, would find her +bent over her desk, pencil in hand, absorbed in a rough drawing +that seemed to bear no relation to the skirt of the day. The +margin of her morning paper was filled with queer little scrawls +by the time she reached the office. She drew weird lines with +her fork on the table-cloth at lunch. These hieroglyphics she +covered with a quick hand, like a bashful schoolgirl, when any +one peeped. + +"Tell a fellow what it's going to be, can't you?" pleaded Buck. + +"I got one glimpse yesterday, when you didn't know I was looking +over your shoulder. It seemed a pass between an overgrown +Zeppelin and an apple dumpling. So I know it can't be a skirt. +Come on, Emma; tell your old man!" + +"Not yet," Emma would reply dreamily. + +Buck would strike an attitude intended to intimidate. + +"If you have no sense of what is due me as your husband, then I +demand, as senior partner of this firm, to know what it is that +is taking your time, which rightfully belongs to this business." + +"Go away, T. A., and stop pestering me! What do you think I'm +designing--a doily?" + +Buck, turning to go to his own office, threw a last retort over +his shoulder--a rather sobering one, this time. + +"Whatever it is, it had better be good--with business what it is +and skirts what they are." + +Emma lifted her head to reply to that. + +"It isn't what they are that interests me. It's what they're +going to be." + +Buck paused in the doorway. + +"Going to be! Anybody can see that. Underneath that full, +fool, flaring over-drape, the real skirt is as tight as ever. I +don't think the spring models will show an inch of real +difference. I tell you, Emma, it's serious." + +Emma, apparently absorbed in her work, did not reply to this. +But a vague something about the back of her head told T. A. Buck +that she was laughing at him. The knowledge only gave him new +confidence in this resourceful, many-sided, lovable, level-headed +partner-wife of his. + +Two weeks went by--four--six--eight. Emma began to look a little +thin. Her bright color was there only when she was overtired or +excited. The workrooms began to talk of new designs for spring, +though it was scarcely mid-winter. The head designer came +forward timidly with a skirt that measured a yard around the +bottom. Emma looked at it, tried to keep her lower lip prisoner +between her teeth, failed, and began to laugh helplessly, almost +hysterically. + +Amazement in the faces of Buck and Koritz, the designer, became +consternation, then, in the designer, resentment. + +Koritz, dark, undersized, with the eyes of an Oriental and the +lean, sensitive fingers of one who creates, shivered a little, +like a plant that is swept by an icy blast. Buck came over and +laid one hand on his wife's shaking shoulder. + +"Emma, you're overtired! This--this thing you've been slaving +over has been too much for you." + +With one hand, Emma reached up and patted the fingers that rested +protectingly on her shoulder. With the other, she wiped her +eyes, then, all contrition, grasped the slender brown hand of the +offended Koritz. + +"Bennie, please forgive me! I--I didn't mean to laugh. I +wasn't laughing at your new skirt." + +"You think it's too wide, maybe, huh?" Bennie Koritz said, and +held it up doubtfully. + +"Too wide!" For a moment Emma seemed threatened with another +attack of that inexplicable laughter. She choked it back +resolutely. + +"No, Bennie; not too wide. I'll tell you to-morrow why I +laughed. Then, perhaps, you'll laugh with me." + +Bennie, draping his despised skirt-model over one arm, had the +courage to smile even now, though grimly. + +"I laugh--sure," he said, showing his white teeth now. "But +the laugh will be, I bet you, on me--like it was when you +designed that knickerbocker before the trade knew such a thing +could be." + +Impulsively Emma grasped his hand and shook it, as though she +found a certain needed encouragement in the loyalty of this +sallow little Russian. + +"Bennie, you're a true artist--because you're big enough to +praise the work of a fellow craftsman when you recognize its +value." And Koritz, the dull red showing under the olive of his +cheeks, went back to his cutting-table happy. + +Buck bent forward, eagerly. + +"You're going to tell me now, Emma? It's finished?" + +"To-night--at home. I want to be the first to try it on. I'll +play model. A private exhibition, just for you. It's not only +finished; it is patented." + +"Patented! But why? What is it, anyway? A new fastener? I +thought it was a skirt." + +"Wait until you see it. You'll think I should have had it +copyrighted as well, not to say passed by the national board of +censors." + +"Do you mean to say that I'm to be the entire audience at the +premiere of this new model?" + +"You are to be audience, critic, orchestra, box-holder, patron, +and `Diamond Jim' Brady. Now run along into your own +office--won't you, dear? I want to get out these letters." And +she pressed the button that summoned a stenographer. + +T. A. Buck, resigned, admiring, and anticipatory, went. + +Annie, the cook, was justified that evening in her bitter +complaint. Her excellent dinner received scant enough attention +from these two. They hurried through it like eager, bright-eyed +school-children who have been promised a treat. Two scarlet +spots glowed in Emma's cheeks. Buck's eyes, through the haze of +his after-dinner cigar, were luminous. + +"Now?" + +"No; not yet. I want you to smoke your cigar and digest your +dinner and read your paper. I want you to twiddle your thumbs a +little and look at your watch. First-night curtains are always +late in rising, aren't they? Well!" + +She turned on the full glare of the chandelier, turned it off, +went about flicking on the soft-shaded wall lights and the lamps. + +"Turn your chair so that your back will be toward the door." + +He turned it obediently. + +Emma vanished. + +From the direction of her bedroom there presently came the sounds +of dresser drawers hurriedly opened and shut with a bang, of a +slipper dropped on the hard-wood floor, a tune hummed in an +absent-minded absorption under the breath, an excited little +laugh nervously stifled. Buck, in his role of audience, began to +clap impatiently and to stamp with his feet on the floor. + +"No gallery!" Emma called in from the hall. "Remember the +temperamental family on the floor below!" A silence--then: +"I'm coming. Shut your eyes and prepare to be jarred by the +Buck balloon-petticoat!" + +There was a rustling of silks, a little rush to the center of the +big room, a breathless pause, a sharp snap of finger and thumb. +Buck opened his eyes. + +He opened his eyes. Then he closed them and opened them again, +quickly, as we do, sometimes, when we are unwilling to believe +that which we see. What he beheld was this: A very pretty, very +flushed, very bright-eyed woman, her blond hair dressed quaintly +after the fashion of the early 'Sixties, her arms and shoulders +bare, a pink-slip with shoulder-straps in lieu of a bodice, +and--he passed a bewildered hand over his eyes a skirt that +billowed and flared and flounced and spread in a great, graceful +circle--a skirt strangely light for all its fulness--a skirt +like, and yet, somehow, unlike those garments seen in ancient +copies of Godey's Lady Book. + +"That can't be--you don't mean--what--what IS it?" stammered +Buck, dismayed. + +Emma, her arms curved above her head like a ballet-dancer's, +pirouetted, curtsied very low so that the skirt spread all about +her on the floor, like the petals of a flower. + +"Hoops, my dear!" + +"Hoops!" echoed Buck, in weak protest. "Hoops, my DEAR!" + +Emma stroked one silken fold with approving fingers. + +"Our new leader for spring." + +"But, Emma, you're joking!" + +She stared, suddenly serious. + +"You mean--you don't like it!" + +"Like it! For a fancy-dress costume, yes; but as a petticoat +for every-day wear, to be made up by us for our customers! But +of course you're playing a trick on me." He laughed a little +weakly and came toward her. "You can't catch me that way, old +girl! It's darned becoming, Emma--I'll say that." He bent down, +smiling. "I'll allow you to kiss me. And then try me with the +real surprise, will you?" + +Her coquetry vanished. Her smile fled with it. Her pretty pose +was abandoned. Mrs. T. A. Buck, wife, gave way to Emma McChesney +Buck, business woman. She stiffened a little, as though bracing +herself for a verbal encounter. + +"You'll get used to it. I expected you to be jolted at the +first shock of it. I was, myself--when the idea came to me." + +Buck passed a frenzied forefinger under his collar, as though it +had suddenly grown too tight for him. + +"Used to it! I don't want to get used to it! It's +preposterous! You can't be serious! No woman would wear a +garment like that! For five years skirts have been tighter and +tighter----" + +"Until this summer they became tightest," interrupted Emma. +"They could go no farther. I knew that meant, `About face!' I +knew it meant not a slightly wider skirt but a wildly wider +skirt. A skirt as bouffant as the other had been scant. I was +sure it wouldn't be a gradual process at all but a mushroom +growth--hobbles to-day, hoops to-morrow. Study the history of +women's clothes, and you'll find that has always been true." + +"Look here, Emma," began Buck, desperately; "you're wrong, all +wrong! Here, let me throw this scarf over your shoulders. Now +we'll sit down and talk this thing over sensibly." + +"I'll agree to the scarf"--she drew a soft, silken, fringed +shawl about her and immediately one thought of a certain vivid, +brilliant portrait of a hoop-skirted dancer--"but don't ask me +to sit down. I'd rebound like a toy balloon. I've got to +convince you of this thing. I'll have to do it standing." + +Buck sank into his chair and dabbed at his forehead with his +handkerchief. + +"You'll never convince me, sitting or standing. Emma, I know I +fought the knickerbocker when you originated it, and I know that +it turned out to be a magnificent success. But this is +different. The knicker was practical; this thing's absurd--it's +impossible! This is an age of activity. In Civil War days women +minced daintily along when they walked at all. They stitched on +samplers by way of diversion." + +"What has all that to do with it?" inquired Emma sweetly. + +"Everything. Use a little logic." + +"Logic! In a discussion about women's dress! T. A., I'm +surprised." + +"But, Emma, be reasonable. Good Lord! You're usually +clear-sighted enough. Our mode of living has changed in the last +fifty years--our methods of transit, our pastimes, customs, +everything. Imagine a woman trying to climb a Fifth Avenue 'bus +in one of those things. Fancy her in a hot set of tennis. Women +use street-cars, automobiles, airships. Can you see a subway +train full of hoop-skirted clerks, stenographers, and models? +Street-car steps aren't built for it. Office-building elevators +can't stand for it. Six-room apartments won't accommodate 'em. +They're fantastic, wild, improbable. You're wrong, Emma--all +wrong!" + +She had listened patiently enough, never once attempting to +interrupt. But on her lips was the maddening half-smile of one +whose rebuttal is ready. Now she perched for a moment at the +extreme edge of the arm of a chair. Her skirt subsided +decorously. Buck noticed that, with surprise, even in the midst +of his heated protest. + +"T. A., you've probably forgotten, but those are the very +arguments used when the hobble was introduced. Preposterous, +people said--impossible! Women couldn't walk in 'em. Wouldn't, +couldn't sit down in 'em. Women couldn't run, play tennis, skate +in them. The car steps were too high for them. Well, what +happened? Women had to walk in them, and a new gait became the +fashion. Women took lessons in how to sit down in them. They +slashed them for tennis and skating. And street-car companies +all over the country lowered the car steps to accommodate them. +What's true for the hobble holds good for the hoop. Women will +cease to single-foot and learn to undulate when they walk. +They'll widen the car platforms. They'll sit on top the Fifth +Avenue 'buses, and you'll never give them a second thought." + +"The things don't stay where they belong. I've seen 'em +misbehave in musical comedies," argued Buck miserably. + +"That's where my patent comes in. The old hoop was cumbersome, +unwieldy, clumsy. The new skirt, by my patent featherboning +process, is made light, graceful, easily managed. T. A., I +predict that by midsummer a tight skirt will be as rare a sight +as a full one was a year ago." + +"Nonsense!" + +"We're not quarreling, are we?" + +"Quarreling! I rather think not! A man can have his own +opinion, can't he?" + +It appeared, however, that he could not. For when they had +threshed it out, inch by inch, as might two partners whose only +bond was business, it was Emma who won. + +"Remember, I'm not convinced," Buck warned her; "I'm only +beaten by superior force. But I do believe in your woman's +intuition--I'll say that. It has never gone wrong. I'm banking +on it. + +"It's woman's intuition when we win," Emma observed, +thoughtfully. "When we lose it's a foolish, feminine notion." + +There were to be no half-way measures. The skirt was to be the +feature of the spring line. Cutters and designers were one with +Buck in thinking it a freak garment. Emma reminded them that the +same thing had been said of the hobble on its appearance. + +In February, Billy Spalding, veteran skirt-salesman, led a +flying wedge of six on a test-trip that included the Middle West +and the Coast. Their sample-trunks had to be rebuilt to +accommodate the new model. Spalding, shirt-sleeved, whistling +dolorously, eyed each garment with a look of bristling +antagonism. Spalding sold skirts on commission. + +Emma, surveying his labors, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. + +"If you're going to sell that skirt as enthusiastically as you +pack it, you'd better stay here in New York and save the house +traveling expenses." + +Spalding ceased to whistle. He held up a billowy sample and +gazed at it. + +"Honestly, Mrs. Buck, you know I'd try to sell pretzels in +London if you asked me to. But do you really think any woman +alive would be caught wearing a garment like this in these +days?" + +"Not only do I think it, Billy; I'm certain of it. This new +petticoat makes me the Lincoln of the skirt trade. I'm literally +freeing my sisters from the shackles that have bound their ankles +for five years." + +Spalding, unimpressed, folded another skirt. + +"Um, maybe! But what's that line about slaves hugging their +chains?" + +The day following, Spalding and his flying squad scattered to +spread the light among the skirt trade. And things went wrong +from the start. + +The first week showed an ominous lack of those cheering epistles +beginning, "Enclosed please find," etc. The second was worse. +The third was equally bad. The fourth was final. The second +week in March, Spalding returned from a territory which had +always been known as firmly wedded to the T. A. Buck Featherloom +petticoat. The Middle West would have none of him. + +They held the post-mortem in Emma's bright little office, and +that lady herself seemed to be strangely sunny and undaunted, +considering the completeness of her defeat. She sat at her desk +now, very interested, very bright-eyed, very calm. Buck, in a +chair at the side of her desk, was interested, too, but not so +calm. Spalding, who was accustomed to talk while standing, +leaned against the desk, feet crossed, brows furrowed. As he +talked, he emphasized his remarks by jabbing the air with his +pencil. + +"Well," said Emma quietly, "it didn't go." + +"It didn't even start," corrected Spalding. + +"But why?" demanded Buck. "Why?" + +Spalding leaned forward a little, eagerly. + +"I'll tell you something: When I started out with that little +garment, I thought it was a joke. Before I'd been out with it a +week, I began to like it. In ten days, I was crazy about it, and +I believed in it from the waistband to the hem. On the level, +Mrs. Buck, I think it's a wonder. Now, can you explain that?" + +"Yes," said Emma; "you didn't like it at first because it was +a shock to you. It outraged all your ideas of what a skirt ought +to be. Then you grew accustomed to it. Then you began to see +its good points. Why couldn't you make the trade get your +viewpoint?" + +"This is why: Out in Manistee and Oshkosh and Terre Haute, the +girls have just really learned the trick of walking in tight +skirts. It's as impossible to convince a Middle West buyer that +the exaggerated full skirt is going to be worn next summer as it +would be to prove to him that men are going to wear sunbonnets. +They thought I was trying to sell 'em masquerade costumes. I may +believe in it, and you may believe in it, and T. A.; but the +girls from Joplin--well, they're from Joplin. And they're +waiting to hear from headquarters." + +T. A. Buck crossed one leg over the other and sat up with a +little sigh. + +"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said. + +"It does not," replied Emma McChesney Buck crisply. "If they +want to hear from headquarters, they won't have long to wait." + +"Now, Emma, don't try to push this thing if it----" + +"T. A., please don't look so forgiving. I'd much rather have +you reproach me." + +"It's you I'm thinking of, not the skirt." + +"But I want you to think of the skirt, too. We've gone into +this thing, and it has cost us thousands. Don't think I'm going +to sit quietly by and watch those thousands trickle out of our +hands. We've played our first card. It didn't take a trick. +Here's another." + +Buck and Spalding were leaning forward, interested, attentive. +There was that in Emma's vivid, glowing face which did not mean +defeat. + +"March fifteenth, at Madison Square Garden, there is to be held +the first annual exhibition of the Society for the Promotion of +American Styles for American Women. For one hundred years we've +taken our fashions as Paris dictated, regardless of whether they +outraged our sense of humor or decency or of fitness. This year +the American designer is going to have a chance. Am I an +American designer, T. A., Billy?" + +"Yes!" in chorus. + +"Then I shall exhibit that skirt on a live model at the First +Annual American Fashion Show next month. Every skirt-buyer in +the country will be there. If it takes hold there, it's +made--and so are we." + +March came, and with it an army of men and women buyers, +dependent, for the first time in their business careers, on the +ingenuity of the American brain. The keen-eyed legions that had +advanced on Europe early, armed with letters of credit--the vast +horde that returned each spring and autumn laden with their +spoils--hats, gowns, laces, linens, silks, embroideries--were +obliged to content themselves with what was to be found in their +own camp. + +Clever manager that she was, Emma took as much pains with her +model as with the skirt itself. She chose a girl whose demure +prettiness and quiet charm would enhance the possibilities of the +skirt's practicability in the eye of the shrewd buyer. Gertrude, +the model, developed a real interest in the success of the +petticoat. Emma knew enough about the psychology of crowds to +realize how this increased her chances for success. + +The much heralded fashion show was to open at one o'clock on the +afternoon of March fifteenth. At ten o'clock that morning, there +breezed in from Chicago a tall, slim, alert young man, who made +straight for the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat +Company, walked into the junior partner's private office, and +took that astonished lady in his two strong arms. + +"Jock McChesney!" gasped his rumpled mother, emerging from the +hug. "I've been hungry for a sight of you!" She was submerged +in a second hug. "Come here to the window where I can get a +real look at you! Why didn't you wire me? What are you doing +away from your own job? How's business? And why come to-day, of +all days, when I can't make a fuss over you?" + +Jock McChesney, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, steady of hand, stood +up well under the satisfied scrutiny of his adoring mother. He +smiled down at her. + +"Wanted to surprise you. Here for three reasons--the Abbott +Grape-juice advertising contract, you, and Grace. And why can't +you make a fuss over me, I'd like to know?" + +Emma told him. His keen, quick mind required little in the way +of explanation. + +"But why didn't you let me in on it sooner?" + +"Because, son, nothing explains harder than embryo success. I +always prefer to wait until it's grown up and let it do its own +explaining." + +"But the thing ought to have national advertising," Jock +insisted, with the advertising expert's lightning grasp of its +possibilities. "What that skirt needs is publicity. Why didn't +you let me handle----" + +"Yes, I know, dear; but you haven't seen the skirt. It won't do +to ram it down their throats. I want to ease it to them first. +I want them to get used to it. It failed utterly on the road, +because it jarred their notion of what a petticoat ought to be. +That's due to five years of sheath skirts." + +"But suppose--just for the sake of argument --that it doesn't +strike them right this afternoon?" + +"Then it's gone, that's all. Six months from now, every +skirt-factory in the country will be manufacturing a similar +garment. People will be ready for it then. I've just tried to +cut in ahead of the rest. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to do +it." + +Jock hugged her again at that, to the edification of the office +windows across the way. + +"Gad, you're a wiz, mother! Now listen: I 'phoned Grace when I +got in. She's going to meet me here at one. I'll chase over to +the office now on this grape-juice thing and come back here in +time for lunch. Is T. A. in? I'll look in on him a minute. +We'll all lunch together, and then----" + +"Can't do it, son. The show opens at one. Gertrude, my model, +comes on at three. She's going to have the stage to herself for +ten minutes, during which she'll make four changes of costume to +demonstrate the usefulness of the skirt for every sort of gown +from chiffon to velvet. Come back here at one, if you like. If +I'm not here, come over to the show. But--lunch! I'd choke." + +At twelve-thirty, there scampered into Emma's office a very +white-faced, round-eyed little stock-girl. Emma, deep in a +last-minute discussion with Buck, had a premonition of trouble +before the girl gasped out her message. + +"Oh, Mrs. Buck, Gertie's awful sick!" + +"Sick!" echoed Emma and Buck, in duet. Then Emma: + +"But she can't be! It's impossible! She was all right a half +hour ago." She was hurrying down the hall as she spoke. +"Where is she?" + +"They've got her on one of the tables in the workroom. She's +moaning awful." + +Gertie's appendix, with that innate sense of the dramatic so +often found in temperamental appendices, had indeed chosen this +moment to call attention to itself. Gertie, the demurely pretty +and quietly charming, was rolled in a very tight ball on the +workroom cutting-table. At one o'clock, she was on her way home +in a cab, under the care of a doctor, Miss Kelly, the bookkeeper, +and Jock, who, coming in gaily at one, had been pressed into +service, bewildered but willing. + +Three rather tragic figures stared at one another in the junior +partner's office. They were Emma, Buck, and Grace Galt, Jock's +wife-to-be. Grace Galt, slim, lovely, girlish, was known, at +twenty-four, as one of the most expert copy writers in the +advertising world. In her clear-headed, capable manner, she +tried to suggest a way out of the difficulty now. + +"But surely the world's full of girls," she said. "It's late, +I know; but any theatrical agency will send a girl over." + +"That's just what I tried to avoid," Emma replied. "I wanted +to show this skirt on a sweet, pretty, refined sort of girl who +looks and acts like a lady. One of those blond show girls would +kill it." + +Gloom settled down again over the three. Emma broke the silence +with a rueful little laugh. + +"I think," she said, "that perhaps you're right, T. A., and +this is the Lord's way of showing me that the world is not quite +ready for this skirt." + +"You're not beaten yet, Emma," Buck assured her vigorously. +"How about this new girl--what's her name?--Myrtle. She's one +of those thin, limp ones, isn't she? Try her." + +"I will," said Emma. "You're right. I'm not beaten yet. +I've had to fight for everything worth while in my life. I'm +superstitious about it now. When things come easy I'm afraid of +them." Then, to the stock-girl, "Annie, tell Myrtle I want to +see her." + +Silence fell again upon the three. Myrtle, very limp, very thin, +very languid indeed, roused them at her entrance. The hopeful +look in Emma's eyes faded as she beheld her. Myrtle was so +obviously limp, so hopelessly new. + +"Annie says you want me to take Gertie's place," drawled +Myrtle, striking a magazine-cover attitude. + +"I don't know that you are just the--er--type; but perhaps, if +you're willing----" + +"Of course I didn't come here as a model," said Myrtle, and +sagged on the other hip. "But, as a special favor to you I'm +willing to try it--at special model's rates." + +Emma ran a somewhat frenzied hand through her hair. + +"Then, as a special favor to me, will you begin by trying to +stand up straight, please? That debutante slouch would kill a +queen's coronation costume." + +Myrtle straightened, slumped again. + +"I can't help it if I am willowy"--listlessly. + +"Your hair!" Myrtle's hand went vaguely to her head. "I can't +have you wear it that way." + +"Why, this is the French roll!" protested Myrtle, offended. + +"Then do it in a German bun!" snapped Emma. "Any way but +that. Will you walk, please?" + +"Walk?"--dully. + +"Yes, walk; I want to see how you----" + +Myrtle walked across the room. A groan came from Emma. + +"I thought so." She took a long breath. + +"Myrtle, listen: That Australian crawl was necessary when our +skirts were so narrow we had to negotiate a curbing before we +could take it. But the skirt you're going to demonstrate is +wide. Like that! You're practically a free woman in it. Step +out! Stride! Swing! Walk!" + +Myrtle tried it, stumbled, sulked. + +Emma, half smiling, half woeful, patted the girl's shoulder. + +"Oh, I see; you're wearing a tight one. Well, run in and get +into the skirt. Miss Loeb will help you. Then come back +here--and quickly, please." + +The three looked at each other in silence. It was a silence +brimming with eloquent meaning. Each sought encouragement in the +eyes of the other--and failed to find it. Failing, they broke +into helpless laughter. It proved a safety-valve. + +"She may do, Emma--when she has her hair done differently, and +if she'll only stand up." + +But Emma shook her head. + +"T. A., something tells me you're going to have a wonderful +chance to say, `I told you so!' at three o'clock this +afternoon." + +"You know I wouldn't say it, Emma." + +"Yes; I do know it, dear. But what's the difference, if the +chance is there?" + +Suspense settled down on the little office. Billy Spalding +entered, smiling. After five minutes of waiting, even his +buoyant spirits sank. + +"Don't you think--if you were to go in and--and sort of help +adjust things----" suggested Buck vaguely. + +"No; I don't want to prop her up. She'll have to stand alone +when she gets there. She'll either do, or not. When she enters +that door, I'll know." + +When Myrtle entered, wearing the fascinatingly fashioned new +model, they all knew. + +Emma spoke decisively. + +"That settles it." + +"What's the matter? Don't it look all right?" demanded Myrtle. + +"Take it off, Myrtle." + +Then, to the others, as Myrtle, sulking, left the room: + +"I can stand to see that skirt die if necessary. But I won't +help murder it." + +"But, Mrs. Buck," protested Spalding, almost tearfully, +"you've got to exhibit that skirt. You've got to!" + +Emma shook a sorrowing head. + +"That wouldn't be an exhibition, Billy. It would be an +expose." + +Spalding clapped a desperate hand to his bald head. + +"If only I had Julian Eltinge's shape, I'd wear it to the show +for you myself." + +"That's all it needs now," retorted Emma grimly. + +Whereupon, Grace Galt spoke up in her clear, decisive voice. + +"Wait a minute," she said quietly. "I'm going to wear that +skirt at the fashion show." + +"You!" cried the three, like a trained trio. + +"Why not?" demanded Grace Galt, coolly. Then: "No; don't +tell me why not. I won't listen." + +But Emma, equally cool, would have none of it. + +"It's impossible, dear. You're an angel to want to help me. +But you must know it's quite out of the question." + +"It's nothing of the kind. This skirt isn't merely a fad. It +has a fortune in it. I'm business woman enough to know that. +You've got to let me do it. It isn't only for yourself. It's +for T. A. and for the future of the firm." + +"Do you suppose I'd allow you to stand up before all those +people?" + +"Why not? I don't know them. They don't know me. I can make +them get the idea in that skirt. And I'm going to do it. You +don't object to me on the same grounds that you did to Myrtle, do +you?" + +"You!" burst from the admiring Spalding. "Say, you'd make a +red-flannel petticoat look like crepe de Chine and lace." + +"There!" said Grace, triumphant. "That settles it!" And she +was off down the hall. They stood a moment in stunned silence. +Then: + +"But Jock!" protested Emma, following her "What will Jock say? + +Grace! Grace dear! I can't let you do it! I can't!" + +"Just unhook this for me, will you?" replied Grace Galt +sweetly. + +At two o'clock, Jock McChesney, returned from his errand of +mercy, burst into the office to find mother, step-father, and +fiancee all flown. + +"Where? What?" he demanded of the outer office. + +"Fashion show!" chorused the office staff + +"Might have waited for me," Jock said to himself, much injured. +And hurled himself into a taxi. + +There was a crush of motors and carriages for a block on all +sides of Madison Square Garden. He had to wait for what seemed +an interminable time at the box-office. Then he began the task +of worming his way through the close-packed throng in the great +auditorium. It was a crowd such as the great place had not seen +since the palmy days of the horse show. It was a crowd that +sparkled and shone in silks and feathers and furs and jewels. + +"Jove, if mother has half a chance at this gang!" Jock told +himself. "If only she has grabbed some one who can really show +that skirt!" + +He was swept with the crowd toward a high platform at the extreme +end of the auditorium. All about that platform stood hundreds, +close packed, faces raised eagerly, the better to see the slight, +graceful, girlish figure occupying the center of the stage--a +figure strangely familiar to Jock's eyes in spite of its quaintly +billowing, ante-bellum garb. She was speaking. Jock, mouth +agape, eyes protruding, ears straining, heard, as in a daze, the +sweet, clear, charmingly modulated voice: + +"The feature of the skirt, ladies and gentlemen, is that it +gives a fulness without weight, something which the skirt-maker +has never before been able to achieve. This is due to the patent +featherboning process invented by Mrs. T. A. Buck, of the T. A. +Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York. Note, please, that +it has all the advantages of our grandmother's hoop-skirt, but +none of its awkward features. It is graceful"--she turned +slowly, lightly--"it is bouffant" she twirled on her toes--"it +is practical, serviceable, elegant. It can be made up in any +shade, in any material-- silk, lace, crepe de Chine, charmeuse, +taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company is +prepared to fill orders for immediate----" + +"Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again, +heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors +turned upon him, "Well, I'll--be--darned!" + +A hand twitched his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His +mother, very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through +the throng. As they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a +great burst of applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, +shifting, nodding, staccato movements which mean approval in a +mass of people. + +"What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When--did she--did +she----" + +Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand. + +"I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. +I tried to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's +done it, I tell you! She's done it! They love the skirt! +Listen to 'em!" + +"Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her." + +"Angry, dear!" + +"Me? No! I'm--I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and +looks, that little girl; she's got nerve--the real kind! Gee, +how did I ever have the gall to ask her to marry me!" + +Together they sped toward the door that led to the +dressing-rooms. Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as +he looked at this wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance. + +"She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the +steps in one leap. + +"Well, T. A. ?" said Emma. + +"Well, Emma?" said T. A. + +Which burst of eloquence was interrupted abruptly by a short, +squat, dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in +his right, and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that +volatile, voluble person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. +Fromkin, of the "Fromkin Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!" + +"I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd +little eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?" + +"Not here," said Buck abruptly. + +"Sure--here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got +a thing on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for +the rights to that skirt?" + +"Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use +to one who has suggested taking a beloved child from her. + +"Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that +skirt right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a +shock. You'll see. They won't buy. They're afraid of it. I'll +take it off your hands and push it right, see? I offer you forty +thousand for the rights to make that skirt and advertise it as +the `Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!' " + +Emma smiled. + +"How much?" she asked quizzically. + +Abel I. Fromkin gulped. + +"Fifty thousand," he said. + +"Fifty thousand," repeated Emma quietly, and looked at Buck. +"Thanks, Mr. Fromkin! I know, now, that if it's worth fifty +thousand to you to-day as the `Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It +Flares!' then it's worth one hundred and fifty thousand to us as +the `T. A. Buck Balloon-Petticoat. It Billows!' " + +And it was. + + +VI + +SISTERS UNDER THEIR SKIN + +Women who know the joys and sorrows of a pay envelope do not +speak of girls who work as Working Girls. Neither do they use +the term Laboring Class, as one would speak of a distinct and +separate race, like the Ethiopian. + +Emma McChesney Buck was no exception to this rule. Her fifteen +years of man-size work for a man-size salary in the employ of the +T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, precluded +that. In those days, she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, known +from coast to coast as the most successful traveling saleswoman +in the business. It was due to her that no feminine +clothes-closet was complete without a Featherloom dangling from +one hook. During those fifteen years she had educated her son, +Jock McChesney, and made a man of him; she had worked, fought, +saved, triumphed, smiled under hardship; and she had acquired a +broad and deep knowledge of those fascinating and diversified +subjects which we lump carelessly under the heading of Human +Nature. She was Mrs. T. A. Buck now, wife of the head of the +firm, and partner in the most successful skirt manufactory in the +country. But the hard-working, clear-thinking, sane-acting +habits of those fifteen years still clung. + +Perhaps this explained why every machine-girl in the big, bright +shop back of the offices raised adoring eyes when Emma entered +the workroom. Italian, German, Hungarian, Russian--they lifted +their faces toward this source of love and sympathetic +understanding as naturally as a plant turns its leaves toward the +sun. They glowed under her praise; they confided to her their +troubles; they came to her with their joys--and they copied her +clothes. + +This last caused her some uneasiness. When Mrs. T. A. Buck wore +blue serge, an epidemic of blue serge broke out in the workroom. +Did Emma's spring hat flaunt flowers, the elevators, at closing +time, looked like gardens abloom. If she appeared on Monday +morning in severely tailored white-linen blouse, the shop on +Tuesday was a Boston seminary in its starched primness. + +"It worries me," Emma told her husband-partner. "I can't +help thinking of the story of the girl and the pet chameleon. +What would happen if I were to forget myself some day and come +down to work in black velvet and pearls?" + +"They'd manage it somehow," Buck assured her. "I don't know +just how; but I'm sure that twenty-four hours later our shop +would look like a Buckingham drawing-room when the court is in +mourning." + +Emma never ceased to marvel at their ingenuity, at their almost +uncanny clothes-instinct. Their cheap skirts hung and fitted +with an art as perfect as that of a Fifty-seventh Street modiste; +their blouses, in some miraculous way, were of to-day's style, +down to the last detail of cuff or collar or stitching; their +hats were of the shape that the season demanded, set at the angle +that the season approved, and finished with just that repression +of decoration which is known as "single trimming." They wore +their clothes with a chic that would make the far-famed Parisian +outriere look dowdy and down at heel in comparison. Upper Fifth +Avenue, during the shopping or tea-hour, has been sung, painted, +vaunted, boasted. Its furs and millinery, its eyes and figure, +its complexion and ankles have flashed out at us from ten +thousand magazine covers, have been adjectived in reams of +Sunday-supplement stories. Who will picture Lower Fifth Avenue +between five and six, when New York's unsung beauties pour into +the streets from a thousand loft-buildings? Theirs is no mere +empty pink-and-white prettiness. Poverty can make prettiness +almost poignantly lovely, for it works with a scalpel. Your +Twenty-sixth Street beauty has a certain wistful appeal that +your Forty-sixth Street beauty lacks; her very bravado, too, +which falls just short of boldness, adds a final piquant touch. +In the face of the girl who works, whether she be a +spindle-legged errand-girl or a ten-thousand-a-year foreign +buyer, you will find both vivacity and depth of expression. What +she loses in softness and bloom she gains in a something that +peeps from her eyes, that lurks in the corners of her mouth. +Emma never tired of studying them--these girls with their firm, +slim throats, their lovely faces, their Oriental eyes, and their +conscious grace. Often, as she looked, an unaccountable mist of +tears would blur her vision. + +So that sunny little room whose door was marked "MRS. BUCK" had +come to be more than a mere private office for the transaction of +business. It was a clearing-house for trouble; it was a shrine, +a confessional, and a court of justice. When Carmela Colarossi, +her face swollen with weeping, told a story of parental harshness +grown unbearable, Emma would put aside business to listen, and +six o'clock would find her seated in the dark and smelly +Colarossi kitchen, trying, with all her tact and patience and +sympathy, to make home life possible again for the flashing-eyed +Carmela. When the deft, brown fingers of Otti Markis became +clumsy at her machine, and her wage slumped unaccountably from +sixteen to six dollars a week, it was in Emma's quiet little +office that it became clear why Otti's eyes were shadowed and why +Otti's mouth drooped so pathetically. Emma prescribed a love +philter made up of common sense, understanding, and world- +wisdom. Otti took it, only half comprehending, but sure of its +power. In a week, Otti's eyes were shadowless, her lips smiling, +her pay-envelope bulging. But it was in Sophy Kumpf that the T. +A. Buck Company best exemplified its policy. Sophy Kumpf had +come to Buck's thirty years before, slim, pink-cheeked, brown- +haired. She was a grandmother now, at forty-six, broad-bosomed, +broad-hipped, but still pink of cheek and brown of hair. In +those thirty years she had spent just three away from Buck's. +She had brought her children into the world; she had fed them and +clothed them and sent them to school, had Sophy, and seen them +married, and helped them to bring their children into the world +in turn. In her round, red, wholesome face shone a great wisdom, +much love, and that infinite understanding which is born only of +bitter experience. She had come to Buck's when old T. A. was +just beginning to make Featherlooms a national institution. She +had seen his struggles, his prosperity; she had grieved at his +death; she had watched young T. A. take the reins in his +unaccustomed hands, and she had gloried in Emma McChesney's rise +from office to salesroom, from salesroom to road, from road to +private office and recognized authority. Sophy had left her +early work far behind. She had her own desk now in the busy +workshop, and it was she who allotted the piece-work, marked it +in her much-thumbed ledger--that powerful ledger which, at the +week's end, decided just how plump or thin each pay-envelope +would be. So the shop and office at T. A. Buck's were bound +together by many ties of affection and sympathy and loyalty; and +these bonds were strongest where, at one end, they touched Emma +McChesney Buck, and, at the other, faithful Sophy Kumpf. Each a +triumphant example of Woman in Business. + +It was at this comfortable stage of Featherloom affairs that the +Movement struck the T. A. Buck Company. Emma McChesney Buck had +never mingled much in movements. Not that she lacked sympathy +with them; she often approved of them, heart and soul. But she +had been heard to say that the Movers got on her nerves. Those +well-dressed, glib, staccato ladies who spoke with such ease from +platforms and whose pictures stared out at one from the woman's +page failed, somehow, to convince her. When Emma approved a new +movement, it was generally in spite of them, never because of +them. She was brazenly unapologetic when she said that she would +rather listen to ten minutes of Sophy Kumpf's world-wisdom than +to an hour's talk by the most magnetic and silken-clad +spellbinder in any cause. For fifteen business years, in the +office, on the road, and in the thriving workshop, Emma McChesney +had met working women galore. Women in offices, women in stores, +women in hotels--chamber-maids, clerks, buyers, waitresses, +actresses in road companies, women demonstrators, occasional +traveling saleswomen, women in factories, scrubwomen, +stenographers, models--every grade, type and variety of working +woman, trained and untrained. She never missed a chance to talk +with them. She never failed to learn from them. She had been +one of them, and still was. She was in the position of one who is +on the inside, looking out. Those other women urging this cause +or that were on the outside, striving to peer in. + +The Movement struck T. A. Buck's at eleven o'clock Monday +morning. Eleven o'clock Monday morning in the middle of a busy +fall season is not a propitious moment for idle chit-chat. The +three women who stepped out of the lift at the Buck Company's +floor looked very much out of place in that hummingly busy +establishment and appeared, on the surface, at least, very +chit-chatty indeed. So much so, that T. A. Buck, glancing up +from the cards which had preceded them, had difficulty in +repressing a frown of annoyance. T. A. Buck, during his +college-days, and for a lamentably long time after, had been +known as "Beau" Buck, because of his faultless clothes and his +charming manner. His eyes had something to do with it, too, no +doubt. He had lived down the title by sheer force of business +ability. No one thought of using the nickname now, though the +clothes, the manner, and the eyes were the same. At the entrance +of the three women, he had been engrossed in the difficult task +of selling a fall line to Mannie Nussbaum, of Portland, Oregon. +Mannie was what is known as a temperamental buyer. He couldn't +be forced; he couldn't be coaxed; he couldn't be led. But when +he liked a line he bought like mad, never cancelled, and T. A. +Buck had just got him going. It spoke volumes for his self- +control that he could advance toward the waiting three, his +manner correct, his expression bland. + +"I am Mr. Buck," he said. "Mrs. Buck is very much engaged. I +understand your visit has something to do with the girls in the +shop. I'm sure our manager will be able to answer any +questions----" + +The eldest women raised a protesting, white-gloved hand. + +"Oh, no--no, indeed! We must see Mrs. Buck." She spoke in the +crisp, decisive platform-tones of one who is often addressed as +"Madam Chairman." + +Buck took a firmer grip on his self-control. + +"I'm sorry; Mrs. Buck is in the cutting-room." + +"We'll wait," said the lady, brightly. She stepped back a +pace. "This is Miss Susan H. Croft"--indicating a rather +sparse person of very certain years--"But I need scarcely +introduce her." + +"Scarcely," murmured Buck, and wondered why. + +"This is my daughter, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells." + +Buck found himself wondering why this slim, negative creature +should have such sad eyes. There came an impatient snort from +Mannie Nussbaum. Buck waved a hasty hand in the direction of +Emma's office. + +"If you'll wait there, I'll send in to Mrs. Buck." + +The three turned toward Emma's bright little office. Buck +scribbled a hasty word on one of the cards. + +Emma McChesney Buck was leaning over the great cutting-table, +shears in hand. It might almost be said that she sprawled. Her +eyes were very bright, and her cheeks were very pink. Across the +table stood a designer and two cutters, and they were watching +Emma with an intentness as flattering as it was sincere. They +were looking not only at cloth but at an idea. + +"Get that?" asked Emma crisply, and tapped the pattern spread +before her with the point of her shears. "That gives you the +fulness without bunching, d'you see?" + +"Sure," assented Koritz, head designer; "but when you get it +cut you'll find this piece is wasted, ain't it?" He marked out +a triangular section of cloth with one expert forefinger. + +"No; that works into the ruffle," explained Emma. "Here, I'll +cut it. Then you'll see." + +She grasped the shears firmly in her right hand, smoothed the +cloth spread before her with a nervous little pat of her left, +pushed her bright hair back from her forehead, and prepared to +cut. At which critical moment there entered Annie, the +errand-girl, with the three bits of white pasteboard. + +Emma glanced down at them and waved Annie away. + +"Can't see them. Busy." + +Annie stood her ground. + +"Mr. Buck said you'd see 'em. They're waiting." + +Emma picked up one of the cards. On it Buck had scribbled a +single word: "Movers." Mrs. T. A. Buck smiled. A little +malicious gleam came into her eyes. + +"Show 'em in here, Annie," she commanded, with a wave of the +huge shears. "I'll teach 'em to interrupt me when I've got my +hands in the bluing-water." + +She bent over the table again, measuring with her keen eye. When +the three were ushered in a moment later, she looked up briefly +and nodded, then bent over the table again. But in that brief +moment she had the three marked, indexed and pigeonholed. If one +could have looked into that lightning mind of hers, one would +have found something like this: + +"Hmm! What Ida Tarbell calls `Restless women.' Money, and +always have had it. Those hats were born in one of those +exclusive little shops off the Avenue. Rich but somber. They +think they're advanced, but they still resent the triumph of the +motor-car over the horse. That girl can't call her soul her own. +Good eyes, but too sad. He probably didn't suit mother." + +What she said was: + +"Howdy-do. We're just bringing a new skirt into the world. I +thought you might like to be in at the birth." + +"How very interesting!" chirped the two older women. The girl +said nothing, but a look of anticipation brightened her eyes. It +deepened and glowed as Emma McChesney Buck bent to her task and +the great jaws of the shears opened and shut on the virgin cloth. +Six pairs of eyes followed the fascinating steel before which the +cloth rippled and fell away, as water is cleft by the prow of a +stanch little boat. Around the curves went the shears, guided by +Emma's firm white hands, snipping, slashing, doubling on itself, +a very swashbuckler of a shears. + +"There!" exclaimed Emma at last, and dropped the shears on the +table with a clatter. "Put that together and see whether it makes +a skirt or not. Now, ladies!" + +The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that +comes up from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off +successfully, with a final shower of stars. + +"Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the +way to her office. + +The three followed in silence. They were strangely silent, too, +as they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously +enough, it was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to +speak. + +"I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished +and actually ready to wear." + +She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss +Orton-Wells had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the +girl's hand just once. At that there came a look into Miss +Orton-Wells' eyes, and you saw that most decidedly she had her +charm. + +Up spoke Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Gladys is such an enthusiast! That's really her reason for +being here. Gladys is very much interested in working girls. In +fact, we are all, as you probably know, intensely interested in +the working woman." + +"Thank you!" said Emma McChesney Buck. + +"That's very kind. We working women are very grateful to you." + +"We!" exclaimed Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan Croft blankly, +and in perfect time. + +Emma smiled sweetly. + +"Surely you'll admit that I'm a working woman." + +Miss Susan H. Croft was not a person to be trifled with. She +elucidated acidly. + +"We mean women who work with their hands." + +"By what power do you think those shears were moved across the +cutting-table? We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board." + +Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly. + +"But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring +Class." + +"I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to +Saturday, inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the +laboring class I don't want to belong." + +It was here that Mrs. Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to +be trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, +fixed Emma Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, +sails spread. + +"Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious +errand. It ought to interest you vitally because of the position +you occupy in the world of business. We are launching a campaign +against the extravagant, ridiculous, and oftentimes indecent +dress of the working girl, with especial reference to the girl +who works in garment factories. They squander their earnings in +costumes absurdly unfitted to their station in life. Our plan is +to influence them in the direction of neatness, modesty, and +economy in dress. At present each tries to outdo the other in +style and variety of costume. Their shoes are high-heeled, +cloth-topped, their blouses lacy and collarless, their hats +absurd. We propose a costume which shall be neat, becoming, and +appropriate. Not exactly a uniform, perhaps, but something with +a fixed idea in cut, color, and style. A corps of twelve young +ladies belonging to our best families has been chosen to speak to +the shop girls at noon meetings on the subject of good taste, +health, and morality in women's dress. My daughter Gladys is one +of them. In this way, we hope to convince them that simplicity, +and practicality, and neatness are the only proper notes in the +costume of the working girl. Occupying as you do a position +unique in the business world, Mrs. Buck, we expect much from your +cooperation with us in this cause." + +Emma McChesney Buck had been gazing at Mrs. Orton-Wells with an +intentness as flattering as it was unfeigned. But at the close +of Mrs. Orton-Wells' speech she was strangely silent. She +glanced down at her shoes. Now, Emma McChesney Buck had a +weakness for smart shoes which her slim, well-arched foot +excused. Hers were what might be called intelligent-looking +feet. There was nothing thick, nothing clumsy, nothing awkward +about them. And Emma treated them with the consideration they +deserved. They were shod now, in a pair of slim, aristocratic, +and modish ties above which the grateful eye caught a flashing +glimpse of black-silk stocking. Then her eye traveled up her +smartly tailored skirt, up the bodice of that well-made and +becoming costume until her glance rested on her own shoulder and +paused. Then she looked up at Mrs. Orton-Wells. The eyes of +Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft, and Miss Gladys +Orton-Wells had, by some strange power of magnetism, followed the +path of Emma's eyes. They finished just one second behind her, +so that when she raised her eyes it was to encounter theirs. + +"I have explained," retorted Mrs. Orton- Wells, tartly, in +reply to nothing, seemingly, "that our problem is with the +factory girl. She represents a distinct and separate class." + +Emma McChesney Buck nodded: + +"I understand. Our girls are very young-- eighteen, twenty, +twenty-two. At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments +haven't the strong appeal that you might think they have." + +"They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells. + +"Maybe," said Emma Buck gently. "But to me it seems just as +reasonable to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear +pink-and-white blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to +bear sober russets in the autumn." + +Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly. + +"Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss +Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?" + +Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells. Gladys was wearing black, and +black did not become her. It made her creamy skin sallow. Her +suit was severely tailored, and her hat was small and harshly +outlined, and her hair was drawn back from her face. All this, +in spite of the fact that Miss Orton-Wells was of the limp and +fragile type, which demands ruffles, fluffiness, flowing lines +and frou-frou. Emma's glance at the suppressed Gladys was as +fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to bring her to a +decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk. + +"I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in +our shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak. If she +can convince the girls that a--er--fixed idea in cut, color, and +style is the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly +willing that they be convinced." + +Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer, + +"Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?" + +Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat +bobbed and dipped to Emma. The austere Miss Susan H. Croft +unbent in a nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells +remained silent, thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on +Emma's face. + +A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office +door. Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, +red-cheeked woman who entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair +with work-roughened fingers. + +Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers. + +"Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf--Mrs. +Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft"--Sophy threw her a keen +glance; she knew that name--"and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the +four, Sophy was the most at ease. + +"Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kumpf. + +The three bowed, but did not commit themselves. Emma, her hand +still on Sophy's, elaborated: + +"Sophy Kumpf has been with the T. A. Buck Company for thirty +years. She could run this business single-handed, if she had to. +She knows any machine in the shop, can cut a pattern, keep books, +run the entire plant if necessary. If there's anything about +petticoats that Sophy doesn't know, it's because it hasn't been +invented yet. Sophy was sixteen when she came to Buck's. I've +heard she was the prettiest and best dressed girl in the shop." + +"Oh, now, Mrs. Buck!" remonstrated Sophy. + +Emma tried to frown as she surveyed Sophy's bright eyes, her rosy +cheeks, her broad bosom, her ample hips--all that made Sophy an +object to comfort and rest the eye. + +"Don't dispute, Sophy. Sophy has educated her children, married +them off, and welcomed their children. She thinks that excuses +her for having been frivolous and extravagant at sixteen. But we +know better, don't we? I'm using you as a horrible example, +Sophy." + +Sophy turned affably to the listening three. + +"Don't let her string you," she said, and winked one knowing +eye. + +Mrs. Orton-Wells stiffened. Miss Susan H. Croft congealed. But +Miss Gladys Orton- Wells smiled. And then Emma knew she was +right. + +"Sophy, who's the prettiest girl in our shop? And the best +dressed?" + +"Lily Bernstein," Sophy made prompt answer. + +"Send her in to us, will you? And give her credit for lost time +when she comes back to the shop." + +Sophy, with a last beamingly good-natured smile, withdrew. Five +minutes later, when Lily Bernstein entered the office, Sophy +qualified as a judge of beauty. Lily Bernstein was a tiger- +lily--all browns and golds and creams, all graciousness and +warmth and lovely curves. As she came into the room, Gladys +Orton-Wells seemed as bloodless and pale and ineffectual as a +white moth beside a gorgeous tawny butterfly. + +Emma presented the girl as formally as she had Sophy Kumpf. And +Lily Bernstein smiled upon them, and her teeth were as white and +even as one knew they would be before she smiled. Lily had taken +off her shop-apron. Her gown was blue serge, cheap in quality, +flawless as to cut and fit, and incredibly becoming. Above it, +her vivid face glowed like a golden rose. + +"Lily," said Emma, "Miss Orton-Wells is going to speak to the +girls this noon. I thought you might help by telling her +whatever she wants to know about the girls' work and all that, +and by making her feel at home." + +"Well, sure," said Lily, and smiled again her heart-warming +smile. "I'd love to." + +"Miss Orton-Wells," went on Emma smoothly, "wants to speak to +the girls about clothes." + +Lily looked again at Miss Orton-Wells, and she did not mean to be +cruel. Then she looked quickly at Emma, to detect a possible +joke. But Mrs. Buck's face bore no trace of a smile. + +"Clothes!" repeated Lily. And a slow red mounted to Gladys +Orton-Wells' pale face. When Lily went out Sunday afternoons, she +might have passed for a millionaire's daughter if she hadn't been +so well dressed. + +"Suppose you take Miss Orton-Wells into the shop," suggested +Emma, "so that she may have some idea of the size and character +of our family before she speaks to it. How long shall you want +to speak?" + +Miss Orton-Wells started nervously, stammered a little, stopped. + +"Oh, ten minutes," said Mrs. Orton-Wells graciously. + +"Five," said Gladys, quickly, and followed Lily Bernstein into +the workroom. + +Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan H. Croft gazed after them. + +"Rather attractive, that girl, in a coarse way," mused Mrs. +Orton-Wells. "If only we can teach them to avoid the cheap and +tawdry. If only we can train them to appreciate the finer things +in life. Of course, their life is peculiar. Their problems are +not our problems; their----" + +"Their problems are just exactly our problems," interrupted +Emma crisply. "They use garlic instead of onion, and they don't +bathe as often as we do; but, then, perhaps we wouldn't either, +if we hadn't tubs and showers so handy." + +In the shop, queer things were happening to Gladys Orton-Wells. +At her entrance into the big workroom, one hundred pairs of eyes +had lifted, dropped, and, in that one look, condemned her hat, +suit, blouse, veil and tout ensemble. When you are on piece-work +you squander very little time gazing at uplift visitors in the +wrong kind of clothes. + +Gladys Orton-Wells looked about the big, bright workroom. The +noonday sun streamed in from a dozen great windows. There +seemed, somehow, to be a look of content and capableness about +those heads bent so busily over the stitching. + +"It looks--pleasant," said Gladys Orton-Wells. + +"It ain't bad. Of course it's hard sitting all day. But I'd +rather do that than stand from eight to six behind a counter. +And there's good money in it." + +Gladys Orton-Wells turned wistful eyes on friendly little Lily +Bernstein. + +"I'd like to earn money," she said. "I'd like to work." + +"Well, why don't you?" demanded Lily. + +"Work's all the style this year. They're all doing it. Look at +the Vanderbilts and that Morgan girl, and the whole crowd. These +days you can't tell whether the girl at the machine next to you +lives in the Bronx or on Fifth Avenue." + +"It must be wonderful to earn your own clothes." + +"Believe me," laughed Lily Bernstein, "it ain't so wonderful +when you've had to do it all your life." + +She studied the pale girl before her with brows thoughtfully +knit. Lily had met too many uplifters to be in awe of them. +Besides, a certain warm-hearted friendliness was hers for every +one she met. So, like the child she was, she spoke what was in +her mind: + +"Say, listen, dearie. I wouldn't wear black if I was you. And +that plain stuff--it don't suit you. I'm like that, too. +There's some things I can wear and others I look fierce in. I'd +like you in one of them big flat hats and a full skirt like you +see in the ads, with lots of ribbons and tag ends and bows on it. +D'you know what I mean?" + +"My mother was a Van Cleve," said Gladys drearily, as though +that explained everything. So it might have, to any but a Lily +Bernstein. + +Lily didn't know what a Van Cleve was, but she sensed it as a +drawback. + +"Don't you care. Everybody's folks have got something the +matter with 'em. Especially when you're a girl. But if I was +you, I'd go right ahead and do what I wanted to." + +In the doorway at the far end of the shop appeared Emma with her +two visitors. Mrs. Orton-Wells stopped and said something to a +girl at a machine, and her very posture and smile reeked of an +offensive kindliness, a condescending patronage. + +Gladys Orton-Wells did a strange thing. She saw her mother +coming toward her. She put one hand on Lily Bernstein's arm and +she spoke hurriedly and in a little gasping voice. + +"Listen! Would you--would you marry a man who hadn't any money +to speak of, and no sort of family, if you loved him, even if +your mother wouldn't--wouldn't----" + +"Would I! Say, you go out to-morrow morning and buy yourself +one of them floppy hats and a lace waist over flesh-colored +chiffon and get married in it. Don't get it white, with your +coloring. Get it kind of cream. You're so grand and thin, this +year's things will look lovely on you." + +A bell shrilled somewhere in the shop. A hundred machines +stopped their whirring. A hundred heads came up with a sigh of +relief. Chairs were pushed back, aprons unbuttoned. + +Emma McChesney Buck stepped forward and raised a hand for +attention. The noise of a hundred tongues was stilled. + +"Girls, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells is going to speak to you for +five minutes on the subject of dress. Will you give her your +attention, please. The five minutes will be added to your noon +hour." + +Gladys Orton-Wells looked down at her hands for one terrified +moment, then she threw her head up bravely. There was no lack of +color in her cheeks now. She stepped to the middle of the room. + +"What I have to say won't take five minutes," she said, in her +clear, well-bred tones. + +"You all dress so smartly, and I'm such a dowd, I just want to +ask you whether you think I ought to get blue, or that new shade +of gray for a traveling-suit." + +And the shop, hardened to the eccentricities of noonday speakers, +made composed and ready answer: + +"Oh, get blue; it's always good." + +"Thank you," laughed Gladys Orton-Wells, and was off down the +hall and away, with never a backward glance at her gasping and +outraged mother. + +Emma McChesney Buck took Lily Bernstein's soft cheek between +thumb and forefinger and pinched it ever so fondly. + +"I knew you'd do it, Judy O'Grady," she said. + +"Judy O'Who?" + +"O'Grady--a lady famous in history." + +"Oh, now, quit your kiddin', Mrs. Buck!" said Lily Bernstein. + + + +VII + +AN ETUDE FOR EMMA + +If you listen long enough, and earnestly enough, and with ear +sufficiently attuned to the music of this sphere there will come +to you this reward: The violins and oboes and 'cellos and +brasses of humanity which seemed all at variance with each other +will unite as one instrument; seeming discords and dissonances +will blend into harmony, and the wail and blare and thrum of +humanity's orchestra will sound in your ear the sublime melody of +that great symphony called Life. + +In her sunny little private office on the twelfth floor of the +great loft-building that housed the T. A. Buck Company, Emma +McChesney Buck sat listening to the street-sounds that were +wafted to her, mellowed by height and distance. The noises, +taken separately, were the nerve-racking sounds common to a busy +down-town New York cross-street. By the time they reached the +little office on the twelfth floor, they were softened, mellowed, +debrutalized, welded into a weird choirlike chant first high, +then low, rising, swelling, dying away, rising again to a dull +roar, with now and then vast undertones like the rumbling of a +cathedral pipe-organ. Emma knew that the high, clear tenor note +was the shrill cry of the lame "newsie" at the corner of Sixth +Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. Those deep, thunderous bass +notes were the combined reverberation of nearby "L" trains, +distant subway and clanging surface cars. That sharp staccato +was a motorman clanging his bell of warning. These things she +knew. But she liked, nevertheless, to shut her eyes for a moment +in the midst of her busy day and listen to the chant of the city +as it came up to her, subdued, softened, strangely beautified. +The sound saddened even while it filled her with a certain +exaltation. We have no one word for that sensation. The German +(there's a language!) has it--Weltschmerz. + +As distance softened the harsh sounds to her ears, so time and +experience had given her a perspective on life itself. She saw +it, not as a series of incidents, pleasant and unpleasant, but as +a great universal scheme too mighty to comprehend--a scheme that +always worked itself out in some miraculous way. + +She had had a singularly full life, had Emma McChesney Buck. A +life replete with work, leavened by sorrows, sweetened with +happiness. These ingredients make for tolerance. She saw, for +example, how the capable, modern staff in the main business +office had forged ahead of old Pop Henderson. Pop Henderson had +been head bookkeeper for years. But the pen in his trembling +hand made queer spidery marks in the ledgers now, and his figure +seven was very likely to look like a drunken letter "z." The +great bulk of his work was done by the capable, comely Miss Kelly +who could juggle figures like a Cinquevalli. His shaking, +blue-veined yellow hand was no match for Miss Kelly's cool, firm +fingers. But he stayed on at Buck's, and no one dreamed of +insulting him with talk of a pension, least of all Emma. She saw +the work-worn pathetic old man not only as a figure but as a +symbol. + +Jock McChesney, very young, very handsome, very successful, +coming on to New York from Chicago to be married in June, found +his mother wrapped in this contemplative calm. Now, Emma +McChesney Buck, mother of an about-to-be-married son, was also +surprisingly young and astonishingly handsome and highly +successful. Jock, in a lucid moment the day before his wedding, +took occasion to comment rather resentfully on his mother's +attitude. + +"It seems to me," he said gloomily, "that for a mother whose +only son is about to be handed over to what the writers call the +other woman, you're pretty resigned, not to say cheerful." + +Emma glanced up at him as he stood there, so tall and straight +and altogether good to look at, and the glow of love and pride in +her eyes belied the lightness of her words. + +"I know it," she said, with mock seriousness, "and it worries +me. I can't imagine why I fail to feel those pangs that mothers +are supposed to suffer at this time. I ought to rend my garments +and beat my breast, but I can't help thinking of what a stunning +girl Grace Galt is, and what a brain she has, and how lucky you +are to get her. Any girl--with the future that girl had in the +advertising field--who'll give up four thousand a year and her +independence to marry a man does it for love, let me tell you. +If anybody knows you better than your mother, son, I'd hate to +know who it is. And if anybody loves you more than your +mother--well, we needn't go into that, because it would have to +be hypothetical, anyway. You see, Jock, I've loved you so long +and so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and +I love you, not in spite of them but because of them. + +"Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm +not perfect, but a fellow----" + +"Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when +she discovers that you never close a closet door! When I +contemplate her emotions on hearing your howl at finding one seed +in your orange juice at breakfast! When she learns of your +secret and unholy passion for neckties that have a dash of red in +'em, and how you have to be restrained by force from----" + +With a simulated roar of rage, Jock McChesney fell upon his +mother with a series of bear-hugs that left her flushed, panting, +limp, but bright-eyed. + +It was to her husband that Emma revealed the real source of her +Spartan calm. The wedding was over. There had been a quiet +little celebration, after which Jock McChesney had gone West with +his very lovely young wife. Emma had kissed her very tenderly, +very soberly after the brief ceremony. "Mrs. McChesney," she +had said, and her voice shook ever so little; "Mrs. Jock +McChesney!" And the new Mrs. McChesney, a most astonishingly +intuitive young woman indeed, had understood. + +T. A. Buck, being a man, puzzled over it a little. That night, +when Emma had reached the kimono and hair-brushing stage, he +ventured to speak his wonderment. + +"D'you know, Emma, you were about the calmest and most serene +mother that I ever did see at a son's wedding. Of course I +didn't expect you to have hysterics, or anything like that. I've +always said that, when it came to repose and self-control, you +could make the German Empress look like a hoyden. But I always +thought that, at such times, a mother viewed her new +daughter-in-law as a rival, that the very sight of her filled her +with a jealous rage like that of a tigress whose cub is taken +from her. I must say you were so smiling and urbane that I +thought it was almost uncomplimentary to the young couple. You +didn't even weep, you unnatural woman!" + +Emma, seated before her dressing-table, stopped brushing her hair +and sat silent a moment, looking down with unseeing eyes at the +brush in her hand. + +"I know it, T. A. Would you like to have me tell you why?" + +He came over to her then and ran a tender hand down the length of +her bright hair. Then he kissed the top of her head. This +satisfactory performance he capped by saying: + +"I think I know why. It's because the minister hesitated a +minute and looked from you to Grace and back again, not knowing +which was the bride. The way you looked in that dress, Emma, was +enough to reconcile any woman to losing her entire family." + +"T. A., you do say the nicest things to me." + +"Like 'em, Emma?" + +"Like 'em? You know perfectly well that you never can offend me +by making me compliments like that. I not only like them; I +actually believe them!" + +"That's because I mean them, Emma. Now, out with that reason!" + +Emma stood up then and put her hands on his shoulders. But she +was not looking at him. She was gazing past him, her eyes +dreamy, contemplative. + +"I don't know whether I'll be able to explain to you just how I +feel about it. I'll probably make a mess of it. But I'll try. +You see, dear, it's just this way: Two years ago--a year ago, +even--I might have felt just that sensation of personal +resentment and loss. But somehow, lately, I've been looking at +life through--how shall I put it?--through seven-league glasses. +I used to see life in its relation to me and mine. Now I see it +in terms of my relation to it. Do you get me? I was the +soloist, and the world my orchestral accompaniment. Lately, I've +been content just to step back with the other instruments and let +my little share go to make up a more perfect whole. In those +years, long before I met you, when Jock was all I had in the +world, I worked and fought and saved that he might have the +proper start, the proper training, and environment. And I did +succeed in giving him those things. Well, as I looked at him +there to-day I saw him, not as my son, my property that was going +out of my control into the hands of another woman, but as a link +in the great chain that I had helped to forge--a link as strong +and sound and perfect as I could make it. I saw him, not as my +boy, Jock McChesney, but as a unit. When I am gone I shall still +live in him, and he in turn will live in his children. There! +I've muddled it--haven't I?--as I said I would. But I think"-- +And she looked into her husband's glowing eyes.--"No; I'm sure +you understand. And when I die, T. A.----" + +"You, Emma!" And he held her close, and then held her off to +look at her through quizzical, appreciative eyes. "Why, girl, I +can't imagine you doing anything so passive." + + +In the busy year that followed, anyone watching Emma McChesney +Buck as she worked and played and constructed, and helped others +to work and play and construct, would have agreed with T. A. +Buck. She did not seem a woman who was looking at life +objectively. As she went about her home in the evening, or the +office, the workroom, or the showrooms during the day, adjusting +this, arranging that, smoothing out snarls, solving problems of +business or household, she was very much alive, very vital, very +personal, very electric. In that year there came to her many +letters from Jock and Grace--happy letters, all of them, some +with an undertone of great seriousness, as is fitting when two +people are readjusting their lives. Then, in spring, came the +news of the baby. The telegram came to Emma as she sat in her +office near the close of a busy day. As she read it and reread +it, the slip of paper became a misty yellow with vague lines of +blue dancing about on it; then it became a blur of nothing in +particular, as Emma's tears fell on it in a little shower of joy +and pride and wonder at the eternal miracle. + +Then she dried her eyes, mopped the telegram and her lace jabot +impartially, went across the hall and opened the door marked "T. +A. BUCK." + +T. A. looked up from his desk, smiled, held out a hand. + +"Girl or boy?" + +"Girl, of course," said Emma tremulously, "and her name is +Emma McChesney." + +T. A. stood up and put an arm about his wife's shoulders. + +"Lean on me, grandma," he said. + +"Fiend!" retorted Emma, and reread the telegram happily. She +folded it then, with a pensive sigh, "I hope she'll look like +Grace. But with Jock's eyes. They were wasted in a man. At any +rate, she ought to be a raving, tearing beauty with that father +and mother." + +"What about her grandmother, when it comes to looks! Yes, and +think of the brain she'll have," Buck reminded her excitedly. +"Great Scott! With a grandmother who has made the T. A. Buck +Featherloom Petticoat a household word, and a mother who was the +cleverest woman advertising copy-writer in New York, this young +lady ought to be a composite Hetty Green, Madame de Stael, +Hypatia, and Emma McChesney Buck. She'll be a lady wizard of +finance or a----" + +"She'll be nothing of the kind," Emma disputed calmly. "That +child will be a throwback. The third generation generally is. +With a militant mother and a grandmother such as that child has, +she'll just naturally be a clinging vine. She'll be a reversion +to type. She'll be the kind who'll make eyes and wear pale blue +and be crazy about new embroidery-stitches. Just mark my words, +T. A." + +Buck had a brilliant idea. + +"Why don't you pack a bag and run over to Chicago for a few days +and see this marvel of the age?" + +But Emma shook her head. + +"Not now, T. A. Later. Let the delicate machinery of that new +household adjust itself and begin to run smoothly and sweetly +again. Anyone who might come in now--even Jock's mother--would +be only an outsider." + +So she waited very patiently and considerately. There was much +to occupy her mind that spring. Business was unexpectedly and +gratifyingly good. Then, too, one of their pet dreams was being +realized; they were to have their own house in the country, at +Westchester. Together they had pored over the plans. It was to +be a house of wide, spacious verandas, of fireplaces, of +bookshelves, of great, bright windows, and white enamel and +cheerful chintz. By the end of May it was finished, furnished, +and complete. At which a surprising thing happened; and yet, not +so surprising. A demon of restlessness seized Emma McChesney +Buck. It had been a busy, happy winter, filled with work. Now +that it was finished, there came upon Emma and Buck that +unconscious and quite natural irritation which follows a long +winter spent together by two people, no matter how much in +harmony. Emma pulled herself up now and then, horrified to find +a rasping note of impatience in her voice. Buck found himself, +once or twice, fairly caught in a little whirlpool of ill temper +of his own making. These conditions they discovered almost +simultaneously. And like the comrades they were, they talked it +over and came to a sensible understanding. + +"We're a bit ragged and saw-edged," said Emma. "We're getting +on each other's nerves. What we need is a vacation from each +other. This morning I found myself on the verge of snapping at +you. At you! Imagine, T. A.!" + +Whereupon Buck came forward with his confession. + +"It's a couple of late cases of spring fever. You've been tied +to this office all winter. So've I. We need a change. You've +had too much petticoats, too much husband, too much cutting room +and sales-room and rush orders and business generally. Too much +Featherloom and not enough foolishness." He came over and put a +gentle hand on his wife's shoulder, a thing strictly against the +rules during business hours. And Emma not only permitted it but +reached over and covered his hand with her own. "You're tired, +and you're a wee bit nervous; so g'wan," said T. A., ever so +gently, and kissed his wife, "g'wan; get out of here!" + +And Emma got. + +She went, not to the mountains or the seashore but with her face +to the west. In her trunks were tiny garments--garments pink- +ribboned, blue-ribboned, things embroidered and scalloped and +hemstitched and hand-made and lacy. She went looking less +grandmotherly than ever in her smart, blue tailor suit, her +rakish hat, her quietly correct gloves, and slim shoes and softly +becoming jabot. Her husband had got her a compartment, had laden +her down with books, magazines, fruit, flowers, candy. Five +minutes before the train pulled out, Emma looked about the little +room and sighed, even while she smiled. + +"You're an extravagant boy, T. A. I look as if I were equipped +for a dash to the pole instead of an eighteen-hour run to +Chicago. But I love you for it. I suppose I ought to be ashamed +to confess how I like having a whole compartment just for myself. +You see, a compartment always will spell luxury to me. There +were all those years on the road, you know, when I often +considered myself in luck to get an upper on a local of a branch +line that threw you around in your berth like a bean in a tin can +every time the engineer stopped or started." + +Buck looked at his watch, then stooped in farewell. Quite +suddenly they did not want to part. They had grown curiously +used to each other, these two. Emma found herself clinging to +this man with the tender eyes, and Buck held her close, +regardless of train-schedules. Emma rushed him to the platform +and watched him, wide-eyed, as he swung off the slowly moving +train. + +"Come on along!" she called, almost tearfully. + +Buck looked up at her. At her trim, erect figure, at her clear +youthful coloring, at the brightness of her eye. + +"If you want to get a reputation for comedy," he laughed, +"tell somebody on that train that you're going to visit your +granddaughter." + +Jock met her at the station in Chicago and drove her home in a +very dapper and glittering black runabout. + +"Grace wanted to come down," he explained, as they sped along, +"but they're changing the baby's food or something, and she +didn't want to leave. You know those nurses." Emma felt a +curious little pang. This was her boy, her baby, talking about +his baby and nurses. She had a sense of unreality. He turned to +her with shining eyes. "That's a stunning get-up, Blonde. +Honestly, you're a wiz, mother. Grace has told all her friends +that you're coming, and their mothers are going to call. But, +good Lord, you look like my younger sister, on the square you +do!" + +The apartment reached, it seemed to Emma that she floated across +the walk and up the stairs, so eagerly did her heart cry out for +a glimpse of this little being who was flesh of her flesh. +Grace, a little pale but more beautiful than ever, met them at +the door. Her arms went about Emma's neck. Then she stood her +handsome mother-in-law off and gazed at her. + +"You wonder! How lovely you look! Good heavens, are they +wearing that kind of hat in New York! And those collars! I +haven't seen a thing like 'em here. `East is east and West is +west and----' " + +"Where's that child?" demanded Emma McChesney Buck. "Where's +my baby?" + +"Sh-sh-sh-sh!" came in a sibilant duet from Grace and Jock. +"Not now. She's sleeping. We were up with her for three hours +last night. It was the new food. She's not used to it yet." + +"But, you foolish children, can't I peek at her?" + +"Oh, dear, no!" said Grace hastily. "We never go into her +room when she's asleep. This is your room, mother dear. And +just as soon as she wakes up--this is your bath--you'll want to +freshen up. Dear me; who could have hung the baby's little shirt +here? The nurse, I suppose. If I don't attend to every little +thing----" + +Emma took off her hat and smoothed her hair with light, deft +fingers. She turned a smiling face toward Jock and Grace +standing there in the doorway. + +"Now don't bother, dear. If you knew how I love having that +little shirt to look at! And I've such things in my trunk! Wait +till you see them." + +So she possessed her soul in patience for one hour, two hours. +At the end of the second hour, a little wail went up. Grace +vanished down the hall. Emma, her heart beating very fast, +followed her. A moment later she was bending over a very pink +morsel with very blue eyes and she was saying, over and over in a +rapture of delightful idiocy: + +"Say hello to your gran-muzzer, yes her is! Say, hello, +granny!" And her longing arms reached down to take up her +namesake. + +"Not now!" Grace said hastily. "We never play with her just +before feeding-time. We find that it excites her, and that's bad +for her digestion." + +"Dear me!" marveled Emma. "I don't remember worrying about +Jock's digestion when he was two and a half months old!" + +It was thus that Emma McChesney Buck, for many years accustomed +to leadership, learned to follow humbly and in silence. She had +always been the orbit about which her world revolved. Years of +brilliant success, of triumphant execution, had not spoiled her, +or made her offensively dictatorial. But they had taught her a +certain self-confidence; had accustomed her to a degree of +deference from others. Now she was the humblest of the +satellites revolving about this sun of the household. She +learned to tiptoe when small Emma McChesney was sleeping. She +learned that the modern mother does not approve of the holding of +a child in one's arms, no matter how those arms might be aching +to feel the frail weight of the soft, sweet body. She who had +brought a child into the world, who had had to train that child +alone, had raised him single-handed, had educated him, denied +herself for him, made a man of him, now found herself all +ignorant of twentieth century child-raising methods. She learned +strange things about barley-water and formulae and units and +olive oil, and orange juice and ounces and farina, and +bath-thermometers and blue-and-white striped nurses who view +grandmothers with a coldly disapproving and pitying eye. + +She watched the bathing-process for the first time with wonder as +frank as it was unfeigned. + +"And I thought I was a modern woman!" she marveled. "When I +used to bathe Jock I tested the temperature of the water with my +elbow; and I know my mother used to test my bath-water when I was +a baby by putting me into it. She used to say that if I turned +blue she knew the water was too cold, and if I turned red she +knew it was too hot." + +"Humph!" snorted the blue-and-white striped nurse, and rightly. + +"Oh, I don't say that your method isn't the proper one," Emma +hastened to say humbly, and watched Grace scrutinize the +bath-thermometer with critical eye. + +In the days that followed, there came calling the mothers of +Grace's young-women friends, as Jock had predicted. Charming +elderly women, most of them, all of them gracious and friendly +with that generous friendliness which is of the West. But each +fell into one of two classes--the placid, black-silk, rather +vague woman of middle age, whose face has the blank look of the +sheltered woman and who wrinkles early from sheer lack of +sufficient activity or vital interest in life; and the wiry, +well-dressed, assertive type who talked about her club work and +her charities, her voice always taking the rising inflection at +the end of a sentence, as though addressing a meeting. When they +met Emma, it was always with a little startled look of surprise, +followed by something that bordered on disapproval. Emma, the +keenly observant, watching them, felt vaguely uncomfortable. She +tried to be politely interested in what they had to say, but she +found her thoughts straying a thousand miles away to the man whom +she loved and who loved her, to the big, busy factory with its +humming machinery and its capable office staff, to the tasteful, +comfortable, spacious house that she had helped to plan; to all +the vital absorbing, fascinating and constructive interests with +which her busy New York life was filled to overflowing. + +So she looked smilingly at the plump, gray-haired ladies who +came a-calling in their smart black with the softening +lace-effect at the throat, and they looked, smiling politely, +too, at this slim, erect, pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman with +the shining golden hair and the firm, smooth skin, and the alert +manner; and in their eyes was that distrust which lurks in the +eyes of a woman as she looks at another woman of her own age who +doesn't show it. + +In the weeks of her stay, Emma managed, little by little, to take +the place of second mother in the household. She had tact and +finesse and cleverness enough even for that herculean feat. +Grace's pale cheeks and last year's wardrobe made her firm in her +stand. + +"Grace," she said, one day, "listen to me: I want you to get +some clothes--a lot of them, and foolish ones, all of them. +Babies are all very well, but husbands have some slight right to +consideration. The clock, for you, is an instrument devised to +cut up the day and night into your baby's eating- and +sleeping-periods. I want you to get some floppy hats with roses +on 'em, and dresses with ruffles and sashes. I'll stay home and +guard your child from vandals and ogres. Scat!" + +Her stay lengthened to four weeks, five weeks, six. She had the +satisfaction of seeing the roses blooming in Grace's cheeks as +well as in her hats. She learned to efface her own personality +that others might shine who had a better right. And she lost +some of her own bright color, a measure of her own buoyancy. In +the sixth week she saw, in her mirror, something that caused her +to lean forward, to stare for one intent moment, then to shrink +back, wide-eyed. A little sunburst, hair-fine but undeniable, +was etched delicately about the corners of her eyes. Fifteen +minutes later, she had wired New York thus: + + Home Friday. Do you still love me? EMMA. + + +When she left, little Emma McChesney was sleeping, by a curious +coincidence, as she had been when Emma arrived, so that she could +not have the satisfaction of a last pressure of the lips against +the rose-petal cheek. She had to content herself with listening +close to the door in the vain hope of catching a last sound of +the child's breathing. + +She was laden with fruits and flowers and magazines on her +departure, as she had been when she left New York. But, somehow, +these things did not seem to interest her. After the train had +left Chicago's smoky buildings far behind, she sat very still for +a long time, her eyes shut. She told herself that she felt and +looked very old, very tired, very unlike the Emma McChesney Buck +who had left New York a few weeks before. Then she thought of T. +A., and her eyes unclosed and she smiled. By the time the train +had reached Cleveland the little lines seemed miraculously to +have disappeared, somehow, from about her eyes. When they left +the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station she was a +creature transformed. And when the train rolled into the great +down-town shed, Emma was herself again, bright-eyed, alert, +vibrating energy. + +There was no searching, no hesitation. Her eyes met his, and his +eyes found hers with a quite natural magnetism. + +"Oh, T. A., my dear, my dear! I didn't know you were so +handsome! And how beautiful New York is! Tell me: Have I grown +old? Have I?" + +T. A. bundled her into a taxi and gazed at her in some alarm. + +"You! Old! What put that nonsense into your head? You're +tired, dear. We'll go home, and you'll have a good rest, and a +quiet evening----" + +"Rest!" echoed Emma, and sat up very straight, her cheeks pink. +"Quiet evening! T. A. Buck, listen to me. I've had nothing but +rest and quiet evenings for six weeks. I feel a million years +old. One more day of being a grandmother and I should have died! +Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to stop at Fifth +Avenue this minute and buy a hat that's a thousand times too +young for me, and you're going with me to tell me that it isn't. +And then you'll take me somewhere to dinner--a place with music +and pink shades. And then I want to see a wicked play, +preferably with a runway through the center aisle for the chorus. + +And then I want to go somewhere and dance! Get that, dear? +Dance! Tell me, T. A.--tell me the truth: Do you think I'm old, +and faded, and wistful and grandmotherly?" + +"I think," said T. A. Buck, "that you're the most beautiful, +the most wonderful, the most adorable woman in the world, and the +more foolish your new hat is and the later we dance the better +I'll like it. It has been awful without you, Emma." + +Emma closed her eyes and there came from the depths of her heart +a great sigh of relief, and comfort and gratification. + +"Oh, T. A., my dear, it's all very well to drown your identity +in the music of the orchestra, but there's nothing equal to the +soul-filling satisfaction that you get in solo work." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Emma McChesney & Co. by Edna Ferber + + diff --git a/old/emamc10.zip b/old/emamc10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..40076bd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/emamc10.zip |