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“Why–no–I–to tell the truth I was only–“

“Don’t embarrass yourself. I just want to tell you that before I’d accept your auto ride I’d open a little fancy art goods and needlework store in Menominee, Michigan, and get out the newest things in Hardanger work and Egyptian embroidery. And that’s my notion of zero in occupation. Besides, no plain, everyday workingwoman could enjoy herself in your car because her conscience wouldn’t let her. She’d be thinking all the time how she was depriving some poor, hard-working chorus girl of her legitimate pastime, and that would spoil everything. The elevator man told me that you had a new motor car, but the news didn’t interest me half as much as that of his having new twin girls. Anything with five thousand dollars can have a sixty-power machine, but only an elevator man on eight dollars a week can afford the luxury of twins.”

“My dear Mrs. McChesney–“

“Don’t,” said Emma McChesney sharply. “I couldn’t stand much more. I joke, you know, when other women cry. It isn’t so wearing.”

She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. T. A. Junior overtook her in three long strides, and placed himself directly before her.

“My cue,” said Emma McChesney, with a weary brightness, “to say, ‘Let me pass, sir!'”

“Please don’t,” pleaded T. A. Junior. “I’ll remember this the rest of my life. I thought I was a statue of modern business methods, but after to-day I’m going to ask the office boy to help me run this thing. If I could only think of some special way to apologize to you– “

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Emma McChesney indifferently.

“But it isn’t! It isn’t! You don’t understand. That human jellyfish of a Meyers said some things, and I thought I’d be clever and prove them. I can’t ask your pardon. There aren’t words enough in the language. Why, you’re the finest little woman–you’re–you’d restore the faith of a cynic who had chronic indigestion. I wish I–Say, let me relieve you of a couple of those small towns that you hate to make, and give you Cleveland and Cincinnati. And let me–Why say, Mrs. McChesney! Please! Don’t! This isn’t the time to–“

“I can’t help it,” sobbed Emma McChesney, her two hands before her face. “I’ll stop in a minute. There; I’m stopping now. For Heaven’s sake, stop patting me on the head!”

“Please don’t be so decent to me,” entreated T. A. Junior, his fine eyes more luminous than ever.” If only you’d try to get back at me I wouldn’t feel so cut up about it.” Emma McChesney looked up at him, a smile shining radiantly through the tears. “Very well. I’ll do it. Just before I came in they showed me that new embroidery flounced model you just designed. Maybe you don’t know it, but women wear only one limp petticoat nowadays. And buttoned shoes. The eyelets in that embroidery are just big enough to catch on the top button of a woman’s shoe, and tear, and trip her. I ought to have let you make up a couple of million of them, and then watch them come back on your hands. I was going to tell you, anyway, for T. A. Senior’s sake. Now I’m doing it for your own.”

“For–” began T. A. Junior excitedly. And found himself addressing the backs of the letters on the door marked “Private,” as it slammed after the trim, erect figure in blue.