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Miss Stitch came to New York in March. On the evening of her arrival she dined with Fat Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company. He informed her that she looked like a kid, and that that was some classy little gown, and it wasn’t every woman who could wear that kind of thing and get away with it. It took a certain style. Hattie smiled, and hummed off-key to the tune the orchestra was playing, and Ed told her it was a shame she didn’t do something with that voice.

“I have something to tell you,” said Hattie. “Just before I left I had a talk with old Kiser. Or rather, he had a talk with me. You know I have pretty much my own way in my department. Pity if I couldn’t have. I made it. Well, Kiser wanted to know why I didn’t buy Featherlooms. I said we had no call for ’em, and he came back with figures to prove we’re losing a good many hundreds a year by not carrying them. He said the Strauss Sans-silk skirt isn’t what it used to be. And he’s right.”

“Oh, say–” objected Ed Meyers.

“It’s true,” insisted Hattie. “But I couldn’t tell him that I didn’t buy Featherlooms because McChesney made me tired. Besides, she never entertains me when I’m in New York. Not that I’d go to the theater in the evening with a woman, because I wouldn’t, but–Say, listen. Why don’t you make a play for her job? As long as I’ve got to put in a heavy line of Featherlooms you may as well get the benefit of it. You could double your commissions. I’ll bet that woman makes her I-don’t know-how-many thousands a year.”

Ed Meyers’ naturally ruddy complexion took on a richer tone, and he dropped his fork hastily. As he gazed at Miss Stitch his glance was not more than half flattering. “How you women do love each other, don’t you! You don’t. I don’t mind telling you my firm’s cutting down its road force, and none of us knows who’s going to be beheaded next. But–well–a guy wouldn’t want to take a job away from a woman– especially a square little trick like McChesney. Of course she’s played me a couple of low-down deals and I promised to get back at her, but that’s business. But–“

“So’s this,” interrupted Miss Hattie Stitch. “And I don’t know that she is so square. Let me tell you that I heard she’s no better than she might be. I have it on good authority that three weeks ago, at the River House, in our town–“

Their heads came close together over the little, rose-shaded restaurant table.

At eleven o’clock next morning Fat Ed Meyers walked into the office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company and asked to see old T. A.

“He’s in Europe,” a stenographer informed him, “spaing, and sprudeling, and badening. Want to see T. A. Junior?”

“T. A. Junior!” almost shouted Ed Meyers. “You don’t mean to tell me that fellow’s taken hold–“

“Believe me. That’s why Featherlooms are soaring and Sans-silks are sinking. Nobody would have believed it. T. A. Junior’s got a live wire looking like a stick of licorice. When they thought old T. A. was going to die, young T. A. seemed to straighten out all of a sudden and take hold. It’s about time. He must be almost forty, but he don’t show it. I don’t know, he ain’t so good-looking, but he’s got swell eyes.”

Ed Meyers turned the knob of the door marked “Private,” and entered, smiling. Ed Meyers had a smile so cherubic that involuntarily you armed yourself against it.

“Hel-lo Buck!” he called jovially. “I hear that at last you’re taking an interest in skirts–other than on the hoof.” And he offered young T. A. a large, dark cigar with a fussy-looking band encircling its middle. Young T. A. looked at it disinterestedly, and spake, saying:

“What are you after?”

“Why, I just dropped in–” began Ed Meyers lamely.

“The dropping,” observed T. A. Junior, “is bad around here this morning. I have one little formula for all visitors to-day, regardless of whether they’re book agents or skirt salesmen. That is, what can I do for you?”