blood mounted slowly to his temples and he bit his lip. He,
too, was standing, though any one of several green velvet-covered
stools was at his service. He turned away, leaning so much weight on
the bamboo stick he held that it bent and rather surprised him.

Suddenly the scene struck him as very strange, almost unreal--Winifred
Child, his lost dryad, found in his father's store, separated from him
by a dignified barrier of oak and many other things invisible! This
talk going on between them--after last night! The hum of women's
voices in the distance (they kept their distance in this vast
department because he was Peter Rolls, Jr., as all the employees by
this time knew) and the heavy heat and the smell of oak seemed to add
to the unreality of what was going on. Fresias would have helped. But
there was nothing here that suggested help--unless you wanted advice
about a cloak.

Win had been marshalling her ideas like an army hastily assembled to
fight in the dark.

"That is a favour I couldn't refuse to take from you, even if I
would," she said in a low voice, "to help my friends."

"It is no favour. You'll be doing me that."

She went on as if he had not spoken.

"I don't know about any shops in New York except this one--only things
I've heard. Some of the girls I've met here have worked in other
department stores. They say--this is one of the worst. I have to tell
you that--now I've begun. There's no use keeping it back--or you won't
understand how I feel. There are real abuses. The Hands don't break
the laws--that's all. About hours--we close at the right time, but the
salespeople are kept late, often very late, looking over stock. Not
every night for the same people, but several times a week. We have
seats, but we mustn't use them. It would look as if we were lazy--or
business were bad. We 'lend' the management half the time we're
allowed for meals on busy days--and never have it given back. The
meals themselves served in the restaurant--the dreadful
restaurant--seem cheap, but they ought to be cheaper, for they're
almost uneatable. Those of us who can't go out get ptomain poisoning
and appendicitis. I know of cases. Hardly any of us can afford enough
to eat on our salaries. I should think our blood must be almost white!

"But nobody here cares how we live out of business hours, so long as
we're 'smart' and look nice. When we _aren't_ smart--because we're
ill, perhaps--and can't any longer look nice--because