iro. They had entered in the evening, the sunset splashing the bay
and the hills in the foreground and the Sugar-loaf Mountain with an
unbelievable riot of crimson and gold and orange and blue. Suddenly
the sun jerked down, as though pulled by a string, and the magic purple
night came up as though pulled by another.

"Well, anyway, I've seen that," breathed Emma McChesney thankfully.

Next morning, she packed her three samples, as before, her heart heavy,
her mind on Fat Ed Meyers coming up two weeks behind her. Three days in
Rio! And already she had bumped her impatient, quick-thinking,
quick-acting North American business head up against the stone wall of
South American leisureliness and prejudice. She meant no irreverence,
no impiety as she prayed, meanwhile packing Nos. 79, 65, and 48 into
her personal bag:

"O Lord, let Fat Ed Meyers have Bahia; but please, please help me to
land Rio and Buenos Aires!"

Then, in smart tailored suit and hat, interpreter in tow, a prayer in
her heart, and excitement blazing in cheeks and eyes, she made her way
to the dock, through the customs, into a cab that was to take her to
her arena, the broad Avenida.

Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a
well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was
running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get there.
She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of modishly crippling
skirt, past officers, past customs officials, into the section where
stood the one small sample-trunk that she had ordered down in case of
emergency. The trunk had not gone through the customs. It had not
even been opened. But Emma McChesney heeded not trifles like that.
Rio de Janeiro had fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos.
79, 65, and 48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before
seen in Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a
hungry lion. Rio wanted more!

Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her key,
unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted from the
trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers choosing unerringly,
when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese, "It is forbidden!"

Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the
depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word, "PROHIBA!"

"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking.

"INGLES!" shouted the official.