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Downstairs a trim, well-dressed, attractive woman stepped into the elevator and smiled radiantly upon the elevator man, who had smiled first.

“Hello, Jake,” she said. “What’s old in New York? I haven’t been here in three months. It’s good to be back.”

“Seems grand t’ see you, Mis’ McChesney,” returned Jake.” Well, nothin’ much stirrin’. Whatcha think of the Grand Central? I understand they’re going to have a contrivance so you can stand on a mat in the waiting-room and wish yourself down to the track an’ train that you’re leavin’ on. The G’ints have picked a bunch of shines this season. T. A. Junior’s got a new sixty-power auto. Genevieve–that yella-headed steno–was married last month tO. Henry (William Sydney Porter), the shipping clerk. My wife presented me with twin girls Monday. Well, thank you, Mrs. McChesney. I guess that’ll help some.”

Emma McChesney swung down the hall and into the big, bright office. She paused at the head bookkeeper’s desk. The head bookkeeper was a woman. Old Man Buck had learned something about the faithfulness of women employees. The head bookkeeper looked up and said some convincing things.

“Thanks,” said Emma, in return. “It’s mighty good to be here. Is it true that skirts are going to be full in the back? How’s business? T. A. in?”

“Young T. A. is. But I think he’s busy just now. You know T. A. Senior isn’t back yet. He had a tight squeeze, I guess. Everybody’s talking about the way young T. A. took hold. You know he spent years running around Europe, and he made a specialty of first nights, and first editions, and French cars when he did show up here. But now! He’s changed the advertising, and designing, and cutting departments around here until there’s as much difference between this place now and the place it was three months ago as there is between a hoop-skirt and a hobble. He designed one skirt–Here, Miss Kelly! Just go in and get one of those embroidery flounce models for Mrs. McChesney. How’s that? Honestly, I’d wear it myself.”

Emma McChesney held the garment in her two hands and looked it over critically. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She looked up to reply when the door of T. A. Buck’s private office opened, and Ed Meyers walked briskly out. Emma McChesney put down the skirt and crossed the office so that she and he met just in front of the little gate that formed an entrance along the railing.

Ed Meyers’ mouth twisted itself into a smile. He put out a welcoming hand.

“Why, hello, stranger! When did you drive in? How’s every little thing? I’m darned if you don’t grow prettier and younger every day of your sweet life.”

“Quit Sans-silks?” inquired Mrs. McChesney briefly.

“Why–no. But I was just telling young T. A. in there that if I could only find a nice, paying little gents’ furnishing business in a live little town that wasn’t swamped with that kind of thing already I’d buy it, by George! I’m tired of this peddling.”

“Sing that,” said Emma McChesney. “It might sound better,” and marched into the office marked “Private.”

T. A. Junior’s good-looking back and semi-bald head were toward her as she entered. She noted, approvingly, woman-fashion, that his neck would never lap over the edge of his collar in the back. Then Young T. A. turned about. He gazed at Emma McChesney, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Emma McChesney’s honest blue eyes, with no translucent nonsense about them, gazed straight back at T. A. Junior.

“I’m Mrs. McChesney. I got in half an hour ago. It’s been a good little trip, considering business, and politics, and all that. I’m sorry to hear your father’s still ill. He and I always talked over things after my long trip.”

Young T. A.’s expert eye did not miss a single point, from the
tip of Mrs. McChesney’s smart spring hat to the toes of her well-shod feet, with full stops for the fit of her tailored suit, the freshness of her gloves, the clearness of her healthy pink skin, the wave of her soft, bright hair.

“How do you do, Mrs. McChesney,” said Young T. A. emphatically. “Please sit down. It’s a good idea–this talking over your trip. There are several little things–now Kiser & Bloch, of River Falls, for instance. We ought to be selling them. The head of their skirt and suit department is named Stitch, isn’t she? Now, what would you say of Miss Stitch?”