his glasses. Not know it! Of course he knows it." 

 Buck looked down at the desk, smiling curiously. 

 "D'you know, I felt that way, too." 

 Suddenly Emma McChesney began to laugh. It was not all mirth—that laugh. Buck waited. 

 "And to think that I—I kindly and patronizingly handed you a little book full of tips on how to handle Western buyers, 'The Salesman's Who's Who'—I, who used to think I was the witch of the West when it came to selling! You, on your first selling-trip, have made me look like—like a shoe-string peddler." 

 Buck put out a hand suddenly. 

 "Don't say that, Emma. I—somehow it takes away all the pleasure." 

 "It's true. And now that I know, it explains a lot of things that I've been puzzling about in the last twenty-four hours." 

 "What kind of things?" 

 "The way you look and act and think. The way you carry your head. The way you sit in a chair. The very words you use, your gestures, your intonations. They're different." 

 T. A. Buck, busy with his cigar, laughed a little self-consciously. 

 "Oh, nonsense!" he said.  "You're imagining things." 

 Which remark, while not a particularly happy one, certainly was not in itself so unfortunate as to explain why Mrs. McChesney should have turned rather suddenly and bolted into her own office across the hall and closed the door behind her. 

 T. A. Buck, quite cool and unruffled, viewed her sudden departure quizzically. Then he took his cigar from his mouth and stood eying it a moment with more attention, perhaps, than it deserved, in spite of its fine aroma. When he put it back between his lips and sat down at his desk once more he was smiling ever so slightly. 

 Then began a new order of things in the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. Feet that once had turned quite as a matter of course toward the door marked "MRS. MCCHESNEY," now took the direction of the door opposite—and that door bore the name of Buck. Those four months of Mrs. McChesney's absence 

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