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“No,” said Emma McChesney wearily.

“Furthermore, now that old T. A.’s cashed in, how do you know what young Buck’s going to do? He don’t know shucks about the skirt business. They’ve got to take in a third party to keep it a close corporation. It was all between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady Buck. How can you tell whether the new member will want a woman on the road, or not?”

A little steely light hardened the blue of Mrs. McChesney’s eyes.

“We’ll leave the firm of T. A. Buck out of this discussion, please.”

“Oh, very well!” Ed Meyers was unabashed. “Let’s talk about Fromkin. He don’t object, do you, Abe? It’s just like this. He needs your smart head. You need his money. It’ll mean a sure thing for you–a share in a growing and substantial business. When you get your road men trained it’ll mean that you won’t need to go out on the road yourself, except for a little missionary trip now and then, maybe. No more infernal early trains, no more bum hotel grub, no more stuffy, hot hotel rooms, no more haughty lady buyers–gosh, I wish I had the chance!”

Emma McChesney sat very still. Two scarlet spots glowed in her cheeks. “No one appreciates your gift of oratory more than I do, Mr. Meyers. Your flow of language, coupled with your peculiar persuasive powers, make a combination a statue couldn’t resist. But I think it would sort of rest me if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it’s really his funeral.”

Abel Fromkin started nervously, and put his dead cigarette to his lips. “I ain’t much of a talker,” he said, almost sheepishly. “Meyers, he’s got it down fine. I tell you what. I’ll be in New York the twenty-first. We can go over the books and papers and the whole business. And I like you should know my wife. And I got a little girl –Would you believe it, that child ain’t more as a year old, and says Papa and Mama like a actress!”

“Sure,” put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family details. “You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you can sign up and have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive Christmas season.”

Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where the street- lamps were reflected in the ice-covered pavements. Now she spoke, still staring ou
t upon the wintry street.

Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling. And I haven’t got it.”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. McChesney!” objected Ed Meyers.

With a sudden, quick movement Emma McChesney turned from the window to the little dark man who was watching her so intently. She faced him squarely, as though utterly disregarding Ed Meyers’ flattery and banter and cajolery. The little man before her seemed to recognize the earnestness of the moment. He leaned forward a bit attentively.

“If what has been said is true,” she began, this ought to be a good thing for me. If I go into it, I’ll go in heart, soul, brain, and pocket-book. I do know the skirt business from thread to tape and back again. I’ve managed to save a few thousand dollars. Only a woman could understand how I’ve done it. I’ve scrimped on little things. I’ve denied myself necessities. I’ve worn silk blouses instead of linen ones to save laundry-bills and taken a street-car or ‘bus to save a quarter or fifty cents. I’ve always tried to look well dressed and immaculate–“

“You!” exclaimed Ed Meyers. “Why, say, you’re what I call a swell dresser. Nothing flashy, understand, or loud, but the quiet, good stuff that spells ready money.”

“M-m-m–yes. But it wasn’t always so ready. Anyway, I always managed somehow. The boy’s at college. Sometimes I wonder–well, that’s another story. I’ve saved, and contrived, and planned ahead for a rainy day. There have been two or three times when I thought it had come. Sprinkled pretty heavily, once or twice. But I’ve just turned up my coat-collar, tucked my hat under my skirt, and scooted for a tree. And each time it has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the sun coming out bright and warm.”