Mrs. McChesney's smart spring hat to the toes of her well-shod feet,
with full stops for the fit of her tailored suit, the freshness of her
gloves, the clearness of her healthy pink skin, the wave of her soft,
bright hair.

"How do you do, Mrs. McChesney," said Young T. A. emphatically.
"Please sit down. It's a good idea--this talking over your trip. There
are several little things--now Kiser & Bloch, of River Falls, for
instance. We ought to be selling them. The head of their skirt and
suit department is named Stitch, isn't she? Now, what would you say of
Miss Stitch?"

"Say?" repeated Emma McChesney quickly. "As a woman, or a buyer?"

T. A. Junior thought a minute. "As a woman."

Mrs. McChesney thoughtfully regarded the tips of her neatly gloved
hands. Then she looked up. "The kindest and gentlest thing I can say
about her is that if she'd let her hair grow out gray maybe her face
wouldn't look so hard."

T. A. Junior flung himself back in his chair and threw back his head
and laughed at the ceiling.

Then, "How old is your son?" with disconcerting suddenness.

"Jock's scandalously near eighteen." In her quick mind Emma McChesney
was piecing odds and ends together, and shaping the whole to fit Fat
Ed Meyers. A little righteous anger was rising within her.