ts
herself. It was inevitable that a woman of her executive ability,
initiative, and detail sense should be pressed into active service.
November saw Fifth Avenue a-glitter with uniforms, and one third of them
seemed to be petticoated. The Featherloom factory saw little of Emma
now. She bore the title of Commandant with feminine captains,
lieutenants, and girl workers under her; and her blue uniform, as she
herself put it, was so a-jingle with straps, buckles, belts, bars, and
bolts that when she first put it on she felt like a jail.

She left the house at eight in the morning now. Dinner time rarely found
her back in Sixty-third Street. Buck was devoting four evenings a week
to the draft board. At the time of the second Liberty Loan drive in the
autumn he had deserted Featherlooms for bonds. His success was due to
the commodity he had for sale, the type of person to whom he sold it,
and his own selling methods and personality. There was something about
this slim, leisurely man, with the handsome eyes and the quiet voice,
that convinced and impressed you.

"It's your complete lack of eagerness in the transaction, too," Emma
remarked after watching him land a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond
pledge, the buyer a business rival of the Featherloom Petticoat Company.
"You make it seem a privilege, not a favour. A man with your method
could sell sandbags in the Sahara."

Sometimes the two dined downtown together. Sometimes they scarcely saw
each other for days on end. One afternoon at 5.30, Emma, on duty bound,
espied him walking home up Fifth Avenue, on the opposite side of the
street. She felt a little pang as she watched the easy, graceful figure
swinging its way up the brilliant, flag-decked avenue. She had given him
so little time and thought; she had bestowed upon the house such scant
attention in the last few weeks. She turned abruptly and crossed the
street, dodging the late afternoon traffic with a sort of expert
recklessness. She almost ran after the tall figure that was now a block
ahead of her, and walking fast. She caught up with him, matched his
stride, and touched his arm lightly.

"I beg your pardon, but aren't you Mr. T.A. Buck?"

"Yes."

"How do you do! I'm Mrs. Buck."

Then they had giggled together, deliciously, and he had put a firm hand
on the smartly tailored blue serge sleeve.

"I thought so. That being the case, you're coming home along o' me,
young 'ooman."

"Can't do it. I'm on my way to