things helped him, but they didn't sell his line. He sold Featherlooms out of salesmanship, and because he sounded convincing and sincere and businesslike—and he had the samples. It wasn't all bunk. It was three-quarters business. Those two make an invincible combination." An hour later, Ethel Morrissey was shrewdly selecting her winter line of Featherlooms from the stock in the showrooms of the T. A. Buck Company. They went about their business transaction, these two, with the cool abruptness of men, speaking little, and then only of prices, discounts, dating, shipping. Their luncheon conversation of an hour before seemed an impossibility. "You'll have dinner with me to-night?" Emma asked. "Up at my apartment, all cozy?" "Not to-night, dearie. I'll be in bed by eight. I'm not the girl I used to be. Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now it's a chore." She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. "If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like company, why don't you ask—somebody else that's lonesome." After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow. Emma McChesney, her color high, entered her office. It was five o'clock. She cleared her desk in half an hour, breathed a sigh of weariness, reached for hat and jacket, donned them, and, turning out her lights, closed her door behind her for the day. At that same instant, T. A. Buck slammed his own door and walked briskly down the hall. They met at the elevator. They descended in silence. The street gained, they paused uncertainly. "Won't you stay down and have dinner with me to-night, Emma?" "Thanks so much, T. A. Not to-night." "I'm—sorry." "Good night." "Good night."
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