t them like a man's small-size. But a woman's
neck is as different from a man's as her collarbone is."

She picked up a piece of flannel and smoothed it on the cutting-table.
The head designer had looked on in disapproval while her employer's wife
had experimented with scraps of cloth, and pins, and chalk, and
scissors. But Emma had gone on serenely cutting and snipping and
pinning. They made up samples of service shirts with the new
neck-hugging collar and submitted them to Miss Nevins, the head of the
woman's uniform department at Fyfe & Gordon's. That astute lady had been
obliged to listen to scores of canteeners, nurses, secretaries, and
motor leaguers who, standing before a long mirror in one of the many
fitting-rooms, had gazed, frowned, fumbled at collar and topmost button,
and said, "But it looks so--so lumpy around the neck."

Miss Kate Nevins's reply to this plaint was: "Oh, when you get your tie
on--"

"Perhaps they'll let me wear a turn-down collar."

"Absolutely against regulations. The rules strictly forbid anything but
the high, close-fitting collar."

The fair war worker would sigh, mutter something about supposing they'd
shoot you at sunrise for wearing a becoming shirt, and order six,
grumbling.

Kate Nevins had known Mrs. T.A. Buck in that lady's Emma McChesney days.
At the end of the first day's trial of the new Featherloom shirt she had
telephoned the Featherloom factory and had asked for Emma McChesney.
People who had known her by that name never seemed able to get the trick
of calling her by any other.

With every fitting-room in the Fyfe & Gordon establishment demanding her
attention, Miss Nevins's conversation was necessarily brief. "Emma
McChesney?... Kate Nevins.... Who's responsible for the collar on those
Featherloom shirts?... I was sure of it.... No regular designer could
cut a collar like that. Takes a genius.... H'm?... Well, I mean it. I'm
going to write to Washington and have 'em vote you a distinguished
service medal. This is the first day since last I-don't-know-when that
hasn't found me in the last stages of nervous exhaustion at six
o'clock.... All these women warriors are willing to bleed and die for
their country, but they want to do it in a collar that fits, and I don't
blame 'em. After I saw the pictures of that Russian Battalion of Death,
I understood why.... Yes, I know I oughtn't to say that, but...."

By autumn Emma was wearing one of those Featherloom service shir