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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.
"I suppose," he began, "that this ends my my advertising career." "Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and quit. Do you?" "Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!" "Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in his own great friendly grasp.
Perhaps it's just as well he doesn't know." Perhaps it was. At any rate it was true that had the tribe of McChesney been as the leaves of the trees, and had it held a family reunion in Emma McChesney's little hotel bedroom, it would have mattered not at all to her.
And silk stockings and cunning little slippers to match. The store will stand for that. It's a big ad for them, too." Emma McChesney's hair was slightly tousled. Her cheeks were carmine. Her eyes glowed. "Don't you see! Don't you get it! Can't you feel how the thing's going to take hold?"
Then, one evening, Emma McChesney's resentment flared into open revolt. She had announced that she intended to rise half an hour earlier each morning in order that she might walk a brisk mile or so on her way down-town, before taking the subway. "But won't it tire you too much, Mother?" Jock had asked with maddeningly tender solicitude. His mother's color heightened. Her blue eyes glowed dark.
She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit and her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and rosy-cheeked and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney thought, as she kissed her, while the plump arms held her close. Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and eyed her. "Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me.
"Whither?" and laid a sheaf of businesslike- looking papers on the top of Mrs. McChesney's well cleared desk. Mrs. McChesney, without turning, performed the cramming process successfully, so that her hat left only a sub-halo of fluffy bright hair peeping out from the brim. Then, "Playing hooky," she said. "Go 'way."
Now, Duluth, Minnesota, is trying to be a city. In watching its struggles a hunger for a taste of the real city had come upon Emma McChesney. She had been out with her late Fall line from May until September. Every Middle-Western town of five thousand inhabitants or over had received its share of Emma McChesney's attention and petticoats.
Ethel Morrissey stirred her second cup of tea, sipped, stirred, smiled, then reached over and patted Emma McChesney's hand. "Emma, I'm a wise old party, and I can see that it isn't all pique with you. It's something else something deeper. Oh, yes, it is! Now let me tell you what happened when T. A. Buck invaded your old-time territory. I was busy up in my department the morning he came in.
As I passed, I said, 'You'll mow 'em down in those clothes, Meyers." Buck sat down in his leisurely fashion, and laughed his low, pleasant laugh. "Can't you see him, Emma, at the seashore?" But something in Emma McChesney's eyes, and something in her set, unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him.
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