lem is with the factory girl. She
represents a distinct and separate class."

Emma McChesney Buck nodded:

"I understand. Our girls are very young--eighteen, twenty, twenty-two.
At eighteen, or thereabouts, practical garments haven't the strong
appeal that you might think they have."

"They should have," insisted Mrs. Orton-Wells.

"Maybe," said Emma Buck gently. "But to me it seems just as reasonable
to argue that an apple tree has no right to wear pink-and-white
blossoms in the spring, so long as it is going to bear sober russets in
the autumn."

Miss Susan H. Croft rustled indignantly.

"Then you refuse to work with us? You will not consent to Miss
Orton-Wells' speaking to the girls in your shop this noon?"

Emma looked at Gladys Orton-Wells. Gladys was wearing black, and black
did not become her. It made her creamy skin sallow. Her suit was
severely tailored, and her hat was small and harshly outlined, and her
hair was drawn back from her face. All this, in spite of the fact that
Miss Orton-Wells was of the limp and fragile type, which demands
ruffles, fluffiness, flowing lines and frou-frou. Emma's glance at the
suppressed Gladys was as fleeting as it was keen, but it sufficed to
bring her to a decision. She pressed a buzzer at her desk.

"I shall be happy to have Miss Orton-Wells speak to the girls in our
shop this noon, and as often as she cares to speak. If she can
convince the girls that a--er--fixed idea in cut, color, and style is
the thing to be adopted by shop-workers I am perfectly willing that
they be convinced."

Then to Annie, who appeared in answer to the buzzer,

"Will you tell Sophy Kumpf to come here, please?"

Mrs. Orton-Wells beamed. The somber plumes in her correct hat bobbed
and dipped to Emma. The austere Miss Susan H. Croft unbent in a
nutcracker smile. Only Miss Gladys Orton-Wells remained silent,
thoughtful, unenthusiastic. Her eyes were on Emma's face.

A heavy, comfortable step sounded in the hall outside the office door.
Emma turned with a smile to the stout, motherly, red-cheeked woman who
entered, smoothing her coarse brown hair with work-roughened fingers.

Emma took one of those calloused hands in hers.

"Sophy, we need your advice. This is Mrs. Sophy Kumpf--Mrs.
Orton-Wells, Miss Susan H. Croft"--Sophy threw her a keen glance; she
knew that name--"and Miss Orton-Wells." Of the four, Sophy was the
most at ease.

"Pleased to meet you," said Sophy Kum