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“Say?” repeated Emma McChesney quickly. “As a woman, or a buyer?”

T. A. Junior thought a minute. “As a woman.”

Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regarded the tips of her neatly gloved hands. Then she looked up. “The kindest and gentlest thing I can say about her is that if she’d let her hair grow out gray maybe her face wouldn’t look so hard.”

T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling.

Then, “How old is your son?” with disconcerting suddenness.

“Jock’s scandalously near eighteen.” In her quick mind Emma McChesney was piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat Ed Meyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her.

T. A. Junior searched her face with his glowing eyes.

“Does my father know that you have a young man son? Queer you never mentioned it.

“Queer? Maybe. Also, I don’t remember ever having mentioned what church my folks belonged to, or where I was born, or whether I like my steak rare or medium, or what my maiden name was, or the size of my shoes, or whether I take my coffee with or without. That’s because I don’t believe in dragging private and family affairs into the business relation. I think I ought to tell you that on the way in I met Ed Meyers, of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company, coming out. So anything you say won’t surprise me.”

“You wouldn’t be surprised,” asked T. A. Junior smoothly, “if I were to say that I’m considering giving a man your territory?” Emma McChesney’s eyes–those eyes that had seen so much of the world and its ways, and that still could return your gaze so clearly and honestly–widened until they looked so much like those of a hurt child, or a dumb animal that has received a death wound, that young T. A. dropped his gaze in confusion.

Emma McChesney stood up. Her breath came a little quickly. But when she spoke, her voice was low and almost steady.

“If you expect me to beg you for my job, you’re mistaken. T. A. Buck’s Featherloom Petticoats have been my existence for almost ten years. I’ve sold Featherlooms six days in the week, and seven when I had a Sunday customer. They’ve not only been my business and my means of earning a livelihood, they’ve been my religion, my diversion, my life, my pet pastime. I’ve lived petticoats, I’ve talked petticoats, I’ve sold petticoats, I’ve dreamed petticoats–why, I’ve even worn the darned things! And that’s more than any man will ever do for you.”

Young T. A. rose. He laughed a little laugh of sheer admiration. Admiration shone, too, in those eyes of his which so many women found irresistible. He took a step forward and laid one well-shaped hand on Emma McChesney’s arm. She did not shrink, so he let his hand slip down the neat blue serge sleeve until it reached her snugly gloved hand.

“You’re all right!” he said. His voice was very low, and there was a new note in it. “Listen, girlie. I’ve just bought a new sixty-power machine. Have dinner with me to-night, will you? And we’ll take a run out in the country somewhere. It’s warm, even for March. I’ll bring along a fur coat for you. H’m?”

Mrs. McChesney stood thoughtfully regarding the hand that covered her own. The blue of her eyes and the pink of her cheeks were a marvel to behold.

“It’s a shame,” she began slowly, “that you’re not twenty-five years younger, so that your father could give you the licking you deserve when he comes home. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’d do it anyway. The Lord preserve me from these quiet, deep devils with temperamental hands and luminous eyes. Give me one of the bull-necked, red-faced, hoarse-voiced, fresh kind every time. You know what they’re going to say, at least, and you’re prepared for them. If I were to tell you how the hand you’re holding is tingling to box your ears you’d marvel that any human being could have that much repression and live. I’ve heard of this kind of thing, but I didn’t know it happened often off the stage and outside of novels. Let’s get down to cases. If I let you make love to me, I keep my job. Is that it?”