Mrs. McChesney smiled. "I won't ask you to make yourself that miserable. You can't smoke in the parlor. We'll find a quiet corner in the writing-room, where you men can light up. I don't want to take advantage of you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Not that you look your age--not by ten years!'"]

Down in the writing-room at eight they formed a strange little group.

Ed Meyers, flushed and eager, his pink face glowing like a peony, talking, arguing, smoking, reasoning, coaxing, with the spur of a fat commission to urge him on; Abel Fromkin, with his peculiarly pallid skin made paler in contrast to the purplish-black line where the razor had pa.s.sed, showing no hint of excitement except in the restless little black eyes and in the work-scarred hands that rolled cigarette after cigarette, each glowing for one brief instant, only to die down to a blackened ash the next; Emma McChesney, half fascinated, half distrustful, listening in spite of herself, and trying to still a small inner voice--a voice that had never advised her ill.

"You know the ups and downs to this game," Ed Meyers was saying. "When I met you there in the elevator you looked like you'd lost your last customer. You get pretty disgusted with it all, at times, like the rest of us."

"At that minute," replied Emma McChesney, "I was so disgusted that if some one had called me up on the 'phone and said, 'Hullo, Mrs.

McChesney! Will you marry me?' I'd have said: 'Yes. Who is this?'"

"There! That's just it. I don't want to be impolite, or anything like that, Mrs. McChesney, but you're no kid. Not that you look your age-- not by ten years! But I happen to know you're teetering somewhere between thirty-six and the next top. Ain't that right?"

"Is that a argument to put to a lady?" remonstrated Abel Fromkin.

Fat Ed Meyers waved the interruption away with a gesture of his strangely slim hands. "This ain't an argument. It's facts. Another ten years on the road, and where'll you be? In the discard. A man of forty-six can keep step with the youngsters, even if it does make him puff a bit. But a woman of forty-six--the road isn't the place for her. She's tired. Tired in the morning; tired at night. She wants her kimono and her afternoon snooze. You've seen some of those old girls on the road. They've come down step by step until you spot 'em, bleached hair, crow's-feet around the eyes, mussy shirt-waist, yellow and red complexion, demonstrating green and lavender gelatine messes in the grocery of some department store. I don't say that a brainy corker of a saleswoman like you would come down like that. But you've got to consider sickness and a lot of other things. Those six weeks last summer with the fever at Glen Rock put a crimp in you, didn't it?

You've never been yourself since then. Haven't had a decent chance to rest up."

"No," said Emma McChesney wearily.

"Furthermore, now that old T. A.'s cashed in, how do you know what young Buck's going to do? He don't know shucks about the skirt business. They've got to take in a third party to keep it a close corporation. It was all between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady Buck. How can you tell whether the new member will want a woman on the road, or not?"

A little steely light hardened the blue of Mrs. McChesney's eyes.

"We'll leave the firm of T. A. Buck out of this discussion, please."

"Oh, very well!" Ed Meyers was unabashed. "Let's talk about Fromkin.

He don't object, do you, Abe? It's just like this. He needs your smart head. You need his money. It'll mean a sure thing for you--a share in a growing and substantial business. When you get your road men trained it'll mean that you won't need to go out on the road yourself, except for a little missionary trip now and then, maybe. No more infernal early trains, no more b.u.m hotel grub, no more stuffy, hot hotel rooms, no more haughty lady buyers--gosh, I wish I had the chance!"

Emma McChesney sat very still. Two scarlet spots glowed in her cheeks.

"No one appreciates your gift of oratory more than I do, Mr. Meyers.

Your flow of language, coupled with your peculiar persuasive powers, make a combination a statue couldn't resist. But I think it would sort of rest me if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it's really his funeral."

Abel Fromkin started nervously, and put his dead cigarette to his lips. "I ain't much of a talker," he said, almost sheepishly. "Meyers, he's got it down fine. I tell you what. I'll be in New York the twenty-first. We can go over the books and papers and the whole business. And I like you should know my wife. And I got a little girl --Would you believe it, that child ain't more as a year old, and says Papa and Mama like a actress!"

"Sure," put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family details. "You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you can sign up and have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive Christmas season."

Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where the street- lamps were reflected in the ice-covered pavements. Now she spoke, still staring out upon the wintry street.

Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. And I haven't got it."

"Oh, come now, Mrs. McChesney!" objected Ed Meyers.

With a sudden, quick movement Emma McChesney turned from the window to the little dark man who was watching her so intently. She faced him squarely, as though utterly disregarding Ed Meyers' flattery and banter and cajolery. The little man before her seemed to recognize the earnestness of the moment. He leaned forward a bit attentively.

"If what has been said is true," she began, this ought to be a good thing for me. If I go into it, I'll go in heart, soul, brain, and pocket-book. I do know the skirt business from thread to tape and back again. I've managed to save a few thousand dollars. Only a woman could understand how I've done it. I've scrimped on little things. I've denied myself necessities. I've worn silk blouses instead of linen ones to save laundry-bills and taken a street-car or 'bus to save a quarter or fifty cents. I've always tried to look well dressed and immaculate--"

"You!" exclaimed Ed Meyers. "Why, say, you're what I call a swell dresser. Nothing flashy, understand, or loud, but the quiet, good stuff that spells ready money."

"M-m-m--yes. But it wasn't always so ready. Anyway, I always managed somehow. The boy's at college. Sometimes I wonder--well, that's another story. I've saved, and contrived, and planned ahead for a rainy day. There have been two or three times when I thought it had come. Sprinkled pretty heavily, once or twice. But I've just turned up my coat-collar, tucked my hat under my skirt, and scooted for a tree.

And each time it has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the sun coming out bright and warm."

Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of the black ones. "Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly will mean everything to me. They've been my cyclone-cellar. If--"

Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with a note of inquiry in it.

"Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney! Mr.

Fraser! Mr. Lud--"

"Here, boy!" Mrs. McChesney took the little yellow envelope from the salver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on the written words. She rose, her face colorless.

"Not bad news?" The two men spoke simultaneously.

"I don't know," said Emma McChesney. "What would you say?"

She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in silence.

Then once more, aloud:

"'Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your trip.'"

"Why--say--" began Meyers.

"Well?"

"Why--say--this--this looks as if you were fired!"

"Does, doesn't it?" She smiled.

"Then our little agreement goes?" The two men were on their feet, eager, alert. "That means you'll take Fromkin's offer?"

"It means that our little agreement is off. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I want to thank you both for your trouble. I must have been crazy to listen to you for a minute. I wouldn't have if I'd been myself."

"But that telegram--"

"It's signed, 'T. A. Buck.' I'll take a chance."

The two men stared after her, disappointment and bewilderment chasing across each face.

"Well, I thought I knew women, but--" began Ed Meyers fluently.

Pa.s.sing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward the clerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver.

"Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were traced to Columbia City. They're on their way here now."

"Columbia City!" repeated Emma McChesney. "Do you know, I believe I've learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land."

Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded it thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.

The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big bright office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it was another expression that resembled contrition.