now beginning to be jealous of a
green hand's originality and daring taste--was not an Oriental for
nothing. She didn't possess the initiative ability of a designer, but
she could appreciate the crashing music of gorgeous colours met
together on the right notes. Love of colour was in her Jewish blood,
and she was a shrewd business woman also, animated with too vital a
selfishness to let any opportunity of advancement go. She seized the
new girl's idea at a glance, realized its value and its possible
meaning for herself.

"That's queer, but it's smart," she pronounced, and five anxious faces
brightened. "I'd 'a' thought o' that if I hadn't been so awful
worried; my head feels stuffed full o' wadding. I don't seem to have
room for two ideas. Me and you can tell the guyls what to do, and
they'll do it. See here, as fast as we get those things fixed we'll
hang 'em up on the line and make a show. Gee! they'll draw the dames a
mile off, just out of curiosity and nothing else."

"And when we get them we'll get their money, too," Win prophesied
cheerfully. "We'll christen these things Pavlova Russian Sash-Blouses,
and say it's the latest dodge only to _pin_ them together so
purchasers can change the drapery to fit their figures. When we've
sold all we can finish before ten-thirty we'll make a point of pinning
on drapery and neckties in the customers' presence to suit their
taste. I can undertake that part, if you like."

"You do think you're _some_ girl, don't you?" was Miss Stein's only
comment. But Win saw that she meant to accept the scheme and "work it
for all it was worth."

A light of hope and the excitement of battle shone down the dull flame
of anger in her eyes. There was no gleam of gratitude there, and if
Win had wanted it she would have been disappointed; but just at this
moment she wanted nothing on earth save to push that beautiful Jewess
to a triumph over "_him and her_" and to make the two-hour sale of
Pavlova Russian Sash-Blouses a frantic, furious success.

CHAPTER X

PETER ROLLS'S LITTLE WAYS

Something strange had happened in the ground-floor bargain square. The
wasps' nest had suddenly turned into a beehive. The buzz of rage had
lulled to the hum of industry. Fred Thorpe, the "aisle manager," was
blessed with the tact which only some secret sympathy or great natural
kindness can put into a man; and it had kept him at a distance from
Miss Stein that morning. He knew the inner history of that