He informed her that she looked like a kid, and that that was some
classy little gown, and it wasn't every woman who could wear that kind
of thing and get away with it. It took a certain style. Hattie smiled,
and hummed off-key to the tune the orchestra was playing, and Ed told
her it was a shame she didn't do something with that voice.

"I have something to tell you," said Hattie. "Just before I left I had
a talk with old Kiser. Or rather, he had a talk with me. You know I
have pretty much my own way in my department. Pity if I couldn't have.
I made it. Well, Kiser wanted to know why I didn't buy Featherlooms. I
said we had no call for 'em, and he came back with figures to prove
we're losing a good many hundreds a year by not carrying them. He said
the Strauss Sans-silk skirt isn't what it used to be. And he's right."

"Oh, say--" objected Ed Meyers.

"It's true," insisted Hattie. "But I couldn't tell him that I didn't
buy Featherlooms because McChesney made me tired. Besides, she never
entertains me when I'm in New York. Not that I'd go to the theater in
the evening with a woman, because I wouldn't, but--Say, listen. Why
don't you make a play for her job? As long as I've got to put in a
heavy line of Featherlooms you may as well get the benefit of it. You
could double your commissions. I'll bet that woman makes her I-don't
know-how-many thousands a year."

Ed Meyers' naturally ruddy complexion took on a richer tone, and he
dropped his fork hastily. As he gazed at Miss Stitch his glance was
not more than half flattering. "How you women do love each other,
don't you! You don't. I don't mind telling you my firm's cutting down
its road force, and none of us knows who's going to be beheaded next.