"Seven a week," she said. And deftly caught the next
slithering bundle.

Fanny watched her for another moment. Then she turned and
went down the steep stairs.

"None of your business," she said to herself, and continued
her tour. "None of your business." She went up to the new
selectors' floor, and found the plan running as smoothly as
if it had been part of the plant's system for years.
The elevator whisked her up to the top floor, where she met
the plant's latest practical fad, the new textile chemist--a
charming youth, disguised in bone-rimmed glasses, who did
the honors of his little labratory with all the manner
of a Harvard host. This was the fusing oven for silks.
Here was the drying oven. This delicate scale weighed every
ounce of the cloth swatches that came in for inspection, to
get the percentage of wool and cotton. Not a chance for the
manufacturer to slip shoddy into his goods, now.

"Mm," said Fanny, politely. She hated complicated processes
that had to do with scales, and weights, and pounds, and
acids. She crossed over to the Administration Building, and
stopped at the door marked, "Mrs. Knowles." If you had been
an employee of the Haynes-Cooper company, and had been asked
to define Mrs. Knowles's position the chances are that you
would have found yourself floundering, wordless. Haynes-
Cooper was reluctant to acknowledge the need of Mrs.
Knowles. Still, when you employ ten thousand people, and
more than half of these are girls, and fifty per cent of