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Updated: June 19, 2025
Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers. "Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf Mrs. Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft" Sophy threw her a keen glance; she knew that name "and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the four, Sophy was the most at ease. "Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kumpf. The three bowed, but did not commit themselves.
"Put that together and see whether it makes a skirt or not. Now, ladies!" The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that comes up from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off successfully, with a final shower of stars. "Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells. "Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the way to her office. The three followed in silence.
Miss Susan H. Croft congealed. But Miss Gladys Orton-Wells smiled. And then Emma knew she was right. "Sophy, who's the prettiest girl in our shop? And the best dressed?" "Lily Bernstein," Sophy made prompt answer. "Send her in to us, will you? And give her credit for lost time when she comes back to the shop." Sophy, with a last beamingly good-natured smile, withdrew.
If she can convince the girls that a er fixed idea in cut, color, and style is the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly willing that they be convinced." Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer, "Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?" Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat bobbed and dipped to Emma.
Five minutes later, when Lily Bernstein entered the office, Sophy qualified as a judge of beauty. Lily Bernstein was a tiger-lily all browns and golds and creams, all graciousness and warmth and lovely curves. As she came into the room, Gladys Orton-Wells seemed as bloodless and pale and ineffectual as a white moth beside a gorgeous tawny butterfly.
There seemed, somehow, to be a look of content and capableness about those heads bent so busily over the stitching. "It looks pleasant," said Gladys Orton-Wells. "It ain't bad. Of course it's hard sitting all day. But I'd rather do that than stand from eight to six behind a counter. And there's good money in it." Gladys Orton-Wells turned wistful eyes on friendly little Lily Bernstein.
Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft, and Miss Gladys Orton-Wells had, by some strange power of magnetism, followed the path of Emma's eyes. They finished just one second behind her, so that when she raised her eyes it was to encounter theirs. "I have explained," retorted Mrs. Orton-Wells, tartly, in reply to nothing, seemingly, "that our problem is with the factory girl.
"Suppose you take Miss Orton-Wells into the shop," suggested Emma, "so that she may have some idea of the size and character of our family before she speaks to it. How long shall you want to speak?" Miss Orton-Wells started nervously, stammered a little, stopped. "Oh, ten minutes," said Mrs. Orton-Wells graciously. "Five," said Gladys, quickly, and followed Lily Bernstein into the workroom. Mrs.
They were strangely silent, too, as they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously enough, it was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to speak. "I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished and actually ready to wear." She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss Orton-Wells had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the girl's hand just once.
In the doorway at the far end of the shop appeared Emma with her two visitors. Mrs. Orton-Wells stopped and said something to a girl at a machine, and her very posture and smile reeked of an offensive kindliness, a condescending patronage. Gladys Orton-Wells did a strange thing. She saw her mother coming toward her.
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