ud
of Sarah's bundle-chute beat a dull accompaniment to the hum of the big
hive; above the rustle of those myriad yellow order-slips, through
the buzz of the busy mail room; beneath the roar of the presses in the
printing building, the crash of the dishes in the cafeteria, ran the
leid-motif of Sarah-at-seven-a-week. Back in her office once more Fanny
dictated a brief observation-report for Fenger's perusal.

"It seems to me there's room for improvement in our card index file
system. It's thorough, but unwieldy. It isn't a system any more. It's
a ceremony. Can't you get a corps of system sharks to simplify things
there?"

She went into detail and passed on to the next suggestion.

"If the North American Cloak & Suit Company can sell mail order dresses
that are actually smart and in good taste, I don't see why we have to
go on carrying only the most hideous crudities in our women's dress
department. I know that the majority of our women customers wouldn't
wear a plain, good looking little blue serge dress with a white
collar, and some tailored buttons. They want cerise satin revers on a
plum-colored foulard, and that's what we've been giving them. But there
are plenty of other women living miles from anywhere who know what's
being worn on Fifth avenue. I don't know how they know it, but they
do. And they want it. Why can't we reach those women, as well as their
shoddier sisters? The North American people do it. I'd wear one of
their dresses myself. I wouldn't be found dead in one of ours. Here's a
suggestion:

"Why can't we get Camille to design half a dozen models a season for
us? Now don't roar at that. And don't think that the women on western
ranches haven't heard of Camille. They have. They may know nothing of
Mrs. Pankhurst, and Lillian Russell may be a myth to them, but I'll
swear that every one of them knows that Camille is a dressmaker who
makes super-dresses. She is as much a household word among them as
Roosevelt used to be to their men folks. And if we can promise them a
Camille-designed dress for $7.85 (which we could) then why don't we?"

At the very end, to her stenographer's mystification, she added this
irrelevant line.

"Seven dollars a week is not a living wage."

The report went to Fenger. He hurdled lightly over the first suggestion,
knowing that the file system was as simple as a monster of its bulk
could be. He ignored the third hint. The second suggestion amused,
then interested, then con