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Updated: June 19, 2025
At her entrance into the big workroom, one hundred pairs of eyes had lifted, dropped, and, in that one look, condemned her hat, suit, blouse, veil and tout ensemble. When you are on piece-work you squander very little time gazing at uplift visitors in the wrong kind of clothes. Gladys Orton-Wells looked about the big, bright workroom. The noonday sun streamed in from a dozen great windows.
Orton-Wells and Miss Susan H. Croft gazed after them. "Rather attractive, that girl, in a coarse way," mused Mrs. Orton-Wells. "If only we can teach them to avoid the cheap and tawdry. If only we can train them to appreciate the finer things in life. Of course, their life is peculiar. Their problems are not our problems; their "
They were shod now, in a pair of slim, aristocratic, and modish ties above which the grateful eye caught a flashing glimpse of black-silk stocking. Then her eye traveled up her smartly tailored skirt, up the bodice of that well-made and becoming costume until her glance rested on her own shoulder and paused. Then she looked up at Mrs. Orton-Wells. The eyes of Mrs.
We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board." Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly. "But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring Class." "I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to Saturday, inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the laboring class I don't want to belong." It was here that Mrs.
Emma's glance at the suppressed Gladys was as fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to bring her to a decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk. "I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in our shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak.
"Thank you," laughed Gladys Orton-Wells, and was off down the hall and away, with never a backward glance at her gasping and outraged mother. Emma McChesney Buck took Lily Bernstein's soft cheek between thumb and forefinger and pinched it ever so fondly. "I knew you'd do it, Judy O'Grady," she said. "Judy O'Who?" "O'Grady a lady famous in history." "Oh, now, quit your kiddin', Mrs.
"But to me it seems just as reasonable to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear pink-and-white blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to bear sober russets in the autumn." Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly. "Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?" Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells.
She represents a distinct and separate class." Emma McChesney Buck nodded: "I understand. Our girls are very young eighteen, twenty, twenty-two. At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments haven't the strong appeal that you might think they have." "They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells. "Maybe," said Emma Buck gently.
A hundred heads came up with a sigh of relief. Chairs were pushed back, aprons unbuttoned. Emma McChesney Buck stepped forward and raised a hand for attention. The noise of a hundred tongues was stilled. "Girls, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells is going to speak to you for five minutes on the subject of dress. Will you give her your attention, please. The five minutes will be added to your noon hour."
Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to be trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, fixed Emma Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, sails spread. "Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious errand. It ought to interest you vitally because of the position you occupy in the world of business.
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