and eyelet embroidered curtains, and substitutes severe
shantung and chaste net, there is little in the act to
revolutionize industry, or stir the art-world. But when the
Haynes-Cooper company, by referring to its inventory
ledgers, learns that it is selling more Alma Gluck than
Harry Lauder records; when its statistics show that
Tchaikowsky is going better than Irving Berlin, something
epochal is happening in the musical progress of a nation.
And when the orders from Noose Gulch, Nevada, are for those
plain dimity curtains instead of the cheap and gaudy
Nottingham atrocities, there is conveyed to the mind a fact
of immense, of overwhelming significance. The country has
taken a step toward civilization and good taste.

So. You have a skeleton sketch of Haynes-Cooper, whose
feelers reach the remotest dugout in the Yukon, the most
isolated cabin in the Rockies, the loneliest ranch-house in
Wyoming; the Montana mining shack, the bleak Maine farm, the
plantation in Virginia.

And the man who had so innocently put life into this
monster? A plumpish, kindly-faced man; a bewildered,
gentle, unimaginative and somewhat frightened man, fresh-
cheeked, eye-glassed. In his suite of offices in the new
Administration Building--built two years ago--marble and oak
throughout--twelve stories, and we're adding three already;
offices all two-toned rugs, and leather upholstery, with
dim, rich, brown-toned Dutch masterpieces on the walls, he
sat helpless and defenseless while the torrent of millions
rushed, and swirled, and foamed about him. I think he had