te, Slosson," Fenger put in, smoothly. "Miss Brandeis
has given us a very fair general statement. We'll have some facts. Are
you prepared to give us an actual working plan?"

"Yes. At least, it sounds practical to me. And if it does to you--and to
Mr. Slosson--"

"Humph!" snorted that gentleman, in expression of defiance, unbelief,
and a determination not to be impressed.

It acted as a goad to Fanny. She leaned forward in her chair and talked
straight at the big, potent force that sat regarding her in silent
attention.

"I still say that we can copy the high-priced models in low-priced
materials because, in almost every case, it isn't the material that
makes the expensive model; it's the line, the cut, the little trick that
gives it style. We can get that. We've been giving them stuff that might
have been made by prison labor, for all the distinction it had. Then
I think we ought to make a feature of the sanitary methods used in our
infants' department. Every article intended for a baby's use should be
wrapped or boxed as it lies in the bin or on the shelf. And those bins
ought to be glassed. We would advertise that, and it would advertise
itself. Our visitors would talk about it. This department hasn't been
getting a square deal in the catalogue. Not enough space. It ought to
have not only more catalogue space, but a catalogue all its own--the
Baby Book. Full of pictures. Good ones. Illustrations that will make
every mother think her baby will look like that baby, once it is wearing
our No. 29E798--chubby babies, curly-headed, and dimply. And the feature
of that catalogue ought to be, not separate garments, but complete
outfits. Outfits boxed, ready for shipping, and ranging in price all the
way from twenty-five dollars to three-ninety-eight--"

"It can't be done!" yelled Slosson. "Three-ninety-eight! Outfits!"

"It can be done. I've figured it out, down to a packet of assorted size
safety pins. We'll call it our emergency outfit. Thirty pieces. And
while we're about it, every outfit over five dollars ought to be packed
in a pink or a pale blue pasteboard box. The outfits trimmed in pink,
pink boxes; the outfits trimmed in blue, blue boxes. In eight cases out
of ten their letters will tell us whether it's a pink or blue baby. And
when they get our package, and take out that pink or blue box, they'll
be as pleased as if we'd made them a present. It's the personal note--"

"Personal slop!" growled Slosson. "It is