"Why can't we get Camille to design half a dozen models a
season for us? Now don't roar at that. And don't think
that the women on western ranches haven't heard of Camille.
They have. They may know nothing of Mrs. Pankhurst,
and Lillian Russell may be a myth to them, but I'll swear
that every one of them knows that Camille is a dressmaker
who makes super-dresses. She is as much a household word
among them as Roosevelt used to be to their men folks. And
if we can promise them a Camille-designed dress for $7.85
(which we could) then why don't we?"

At the very end, to her stenographer's mystification, she
added this irrevelant line.

"Seven dollars a week is not a living wage."

The report went to Fenger. He hurdled lightly over the
first suggestion, knowing that the file system was as simple
as a monster of its bulk could be. He ignored the third
hint. The second suggestion amused, then interested, then
convinced him. Within six months Camille's name actually
appeared in the Haynes-Cooper catalogue. Not that alone,
the Haynes-Cooper company broke its rule as to outside
advertising, and announced in full-page magazine ads the
news of the $7.85 gowns designed by Camille especially for
the Haynes-Cooper company. There went up a nationwide shout
of amusement and unbelief, but the announcement continued.
Camille (herself a frump with a fringe) whose frocks were
worn by queens, and dancers and matrons with millions, and