For weeks preceding one of these cutting-exhibitions, Emma was likely to be not quite her usual brisk self. A mystic glow replaced the alert brightness of her eye. Her wide-awake manner gave way to one of almost sluggish12 inactivity.
The outer office, noting these things, would lift its eyebrows13 significantly.
"Another hunch15!" it would whisper. "The last time she beat the rest of the trade by six weeks with that elastic-top gusset."
"Inspiration working, Emma?" T. A. Buck would ask, noting the symptoms.
"It isn't inspiration, T. A. Nothing of the kind! It's just an attack of imagination, complicated by clothes-instinct."
"That's all that ails16 Poiret," Buck would retort.
Early in the autumn, when women were still walking with an absurd sidewise gait, like a duck, or a filly that is too tightly hobbled, the junior partner of the firm began to show unmistakable signs of business aberration17. A blight18 seemed to have fallen upon her bright little office, usually humming with activity. The machinery19 of her day, ordinarily as noiseless and well ordered as a thing on ball bearings, now rasped, creaked, jerked, stood still, jolted20 on again. A bustling21 clerk or stenographer22, entering with paper or memorandum23, would find her bent24 over her desk, pencil in hand, absorbed in a rough drawing that seemed to bear no relation to the skirt of the day. The margin25 of her morning paper was filled with queer little scrawls26 by the time she reached the office. She drew weird27 lines with her fork on the table-cloth at lunch. These hieroglyphics28 she covered with a quick hand, like a bashful schoolgirl, when any one peeped.
"Tell a fellow what it's going to be, can't you?" pleaded Buck.
"I got one glimpse yesterday, when you didn't know I was looking over your shoulder. It seemed a pass between an overgrown Zeppelin and an apple dumpling. So I know it can't be a skirt. Come on, Emma; tell your old man!"
"Not yet," Emma would reply dreamily.
Buck would strike an attitude intended to intimidate29.
"If you have no sense of what is due me as your husband, then I demand, as senior partner of this firm, to know what it is that is taking your time, which rightfully belongs to this business."
"Go away, T. A., and stop pestering30 me! What do you think I'm designing—a doily?"
Buck, turning to go to his own office, threw a last retort over his shoulder—a rather sobering one, this time.
"Whatever it is, it had better be good—with business what it is and skirts what they are."
Emma lifted her head to reply to that.
"It isn't what they are that interests me. It's what they're going to be."
Buck paused in the doorway31.
"Going to be! Anybody can see that. Underneath32 that full, fool, flaring33 over-drape, the real skirt is as tight as ever. I don't think the spring models will show an inch of real difference. I tell you, Emma, it's serious."
Emma, apparently34 absorbed in her work, did not reply to this. But a vague something about the back of her head told T. A. Buck that she was laughing at him. The knowledge only gave him new confidence in this resourceful, many-sided, lovable, level-headed partner-wife of his.
Two weeks went by—four—six—eight. Emma began to look a little thin. Her bright color was there only when she was overtired or excited. The workrooms began to talk of new designs for spring, though it was scarcely mid-winter. The head designer came forward timidly with a skirt that measured a yard around the bottom. Emma looked at it, tried to keep her lower lip prisoner between her teeth, failed, and began to laugh helplessly, almost hysterically35.
Amazement36 in the faces of Buck and Koritz, the designer, became consternation37, then, in the designer, resentment38.
Koritz, dark, undersized, with the eyes of an Oriental and the lean, sensitive fingers of one who creates, shivered a little, like a plant that is swept by an icy blast. Buck came over and laid one hand on his wife's shaking shoulder.
"Emma, you're overtired! This—this thing you've been slaving over has been too much for you."
With one hand, Emma reached up and patted the fingers that rested protectingly on her shoulder. With the other, she wiped her eyes, then, all contrition39, grasped the slender brown hand of the offended Koritz.
"Bennie, please forgive me! I—I didn't mean to laugh. I wasn't laughing at your new skirt."
"You think it's too wide, maybe, huh?" Bennie Koritz said, and held it up doubtfully.
"Too wide!" For a moment Emma seemed threatened with another attack of that inexplicable40 laughter. She choked it back resolutely41.
"No, Bennie; not too wide. I'll tell you to-morrow why I laughed. Then, perhaps, you'll laugh with me."
Bennie, draping his despised skirt-model over one arm, had the courage to smile even now, though grimly.
"I laugh—sure," he said, showing his white teeth now. "But the laugh will be, I bet you, on me—like it was when you designed that knickerbocker before the trade knew such a thing could be."
Impulsively42 Emma grasped his hand and shook it, as though she found a certain needed encouragement in the loyalty43 of this sallow little Russian.
"Bennie, you're a true artist—because you're big enough to praise the work of a fellow craftsman44 when you recognize its value." And Koritz, the dull red showing under the olive of his cheeks, went back to his cutting-table happy.
Buck bent forward, eagerly.
"You're going to tell me now, Emma? It's finished?"
"To-night—at home. I want to be the first to try it on. I'll play model. A private exhibition, just for you. It's not only finished; it is patented."
"Patented! But why? What is it, anyway? A new fastener? I thought it was a skirt."
"Wait until you see it. You'll think I should have had it copyrighted as well, not to say passed by the national board of censors45."
"Do you mean to say that I'm to be the entire audience at the premiere of this new model?"
"You are to be audience, critic, orchestra, box-holder, patron, and 'Diamond Jim' Brady. Now run along into your own office—won't you, dear? I want to get out these letters." And she pressed the button that summoned a stenographer.
T. A. Buck, resigned, admiring, and anticipatory46, went.
Annie, the cook, was justified47 that evening in her bitter complaint. Her excellent dinner received scant48 enough attention from these two. They hurried through it like eager, bright-eyed school-children who have been promised a treat. Two scarlet49 spots glowed in Emma's cheeks. Buck's eyes, through the haze50 of his after-dinner cigar, were luminous51.
"Now?"
"No; not yet. I want you to smoke your cigar and digest your dinner and read your paper. I want you to twiddle your thumbs a little and look at your watch. First-night curtains are always late in rising, aren't they? Well!"
She turned on the full glare of the chandelier, turned it off, went about flicking52 on the soft-shaded wall lights and the lamps.
"Turn your chair so that your back will be toward the door."
He turned it obediently.
Emma vanished.
From the direction of her bedroom there presently came the sounds of dresser drawers hurriedly opened and shut with a bang, of a slipper53 dropped on the hard-wood floor, a tune54 hummed in an absent-minded absorption under the breath, an excited little laugh nervously55 stifled56. Buck, in his role of audience, began to clap impatiently and to stamp with his feet on the floor.
"No gallery!" Emma called in from the hall. "Remember the temperamental family on the floor below!" A silence—then: "I'm coming. Shut your eyes and prepare to be jarred by the Buck balloon-petticoat!"
There was a rustling59 of silks, a little rush to the center of the big room, a breathless pause, a sharp snap of finger and thumb. Buck opened his eyes.
He opened his eyes. Then he closed them and opened them again, quickly, as we do, sometimes, when we are unwilling61 to believe that which we see. What he beheld62 was this: A very pretty, very flushed, very bright-eyed woman, her blond hair dressed quaintly63 after the fashion of the early 'Sixties, her arms and shoulders bare, a pink-slip with shoulder-straps in lieu of a bodice, and—he passed a bewildered hand over his eyes a skirt that billowed and flared64 and flounced and spread in a great, graceful65 circle—a skirt strangely light for all its fulness—a skirt like, and yet, somehow, unlike those garments seen in ancient copies of Godey's Lady Book.
"That can't be—you don't mean—what—what IS it?" stammered66 Buck, dismayed.
Emma, her arms curved above her head like a ballet-dancer's, pirouetted, curtsied very low so that the skirt spread all about her on the floor, like the petals67 of a flower.
"Hoops68, my dear!"
"Hoops!" echoed Buck, in weak protest. "Hoops, my DEAR!"
Emma stroked one silken fold with approving fingers.
"Our new leader for spring."
"But, Emma, you're joking!"
She stared, suddenly serious.
"You mean—you don't like it!"
"Like it! For a fancy-dress costume, yes; but as a petticoat for every-day wear, to be made up by us for our customers! But of course you're playing a trick on me." He laughed a little weakly and came toward her. "You can't catch me that way, old girl! It's darned becoming, Emma—I'll say that." He bent down, smiling. "I'll allow you to kiss me. And then try me with the real surprise, will you?"
Her coquetry vanished. Her smile fled with it. Her pretty pose was abandoned. Mrs. T. A. Buck, wife, gave way to Emma McChesney Buck, business woman. She stiffened70 a little, as though bracing71 herself for a verbal encounter.
"You'll get used to it. I expected you to be jolted at the first shock of it. I was, myself—when the idea came to me."
Buck passed a frenzied72 forefinger73 under his collar, as though it had suddenly grown too tight for him.
"Used to it! I don't want to get used to it! It's preposterous74! You can't be serious! No woman would wear a garment like that! For five years skirts have been tighter and tighter——"
"Until this summer they became tightest," interrupted Emma. "They could go no farther. I knew that meant, 'About face!' I knew it meant not a slightly wider skirt but a wildly wider skirt. A skirt as bouffant75 as the other had been scant. I was sure it wouldn't be a gradual process at all but a mushroom growth—hobbles to-day, hoops to-morrow. Study the history of women's clothes, and you'll find that has always been true."
"Look here, Emma," began Buck, desperately76; "you're wrong, all wrong! Here, let me throw this scarf over your shoulders. Now we'll sit down and talk this thing over sensibly."
"I'll agree to the scarf"—she drew a soft, silken, fringed shawl about her and immediately one thought of a certain vivid, brilliant portrait of a hoop69-skirted dancer—"but don't ask me to sit down. I'd rebound77 like a toy balloon. I've got to convince you of this thing. I'll have to do it standing78."
Buck sank into his chair and dabbed79 at his forehead with his handkerchief.
"You'll never convince me, sitting or standing. Emma, I know I fought the knickerbocker when you originated it, and I know that it turned out to be a magnificent success. But this is different. The knicker was practical; this thing's absurd—it's impossible! This is an age of activity. In Civil War days women minced80 daintily along when they walked at all. They stitched on samplers by way of diversion."
"What has all that to do with it?" inquired Emma sweetly.
"Everything. Use a little logic81."
"Logic! In a discussion about women's dress! T. A., I'm surprised."
"But, Emma, be reasonable. Good Lord! You're usually clear-sighted enough. Our mode of living has changed in the last fifty years—our methods of transit82, our pastimes, customs, everything. Imagine a woman trying to climb a Fifth Avenue 'bus in one of those things. Fancy her in a hot set of tennis. Women use street-cars, automobiles83, airships. Can you see a subway train full of hoop-skirted clerks, stenographers, and models? Street-car steps aren't built for it. Office-building elevators can't stand for it. Six-room apartments won't accommodate 'em. They're fantastic, wild, improbable. You're wrong, Emma—all wrong!"
She had listened patiently enough, never once attempting to interrupt. But on her lips was the maddening half-smile of one whose rebuttal is ready. Now she perched for a moment at the extreme edge of the arm of a chair. Her skirt subsided85 decorously. Buck noticed that, with surprise, even in the midst of his heated protest.
"T. A., you've probably forgotten, but those are the very arguments used when the hobble was introduced. Preposterous, people said—impossible! Women couldn't walk in 'em. Wouldn't, couldn't sit down in 'em. Women couldn't run, play tennis, skate in them. The car steps were too high for them. Well, what happened? Women had to walk in them, and a new gait became the fashion. Women took lessons in how to sit down in them. They slashed them for tennis and skating. And street-car companies all over the country lowered the car steps to accommodate them. What's true for the hobble holds good for the hoop. Women will cease to single-foot and learn to undulate when they walk. They'll widen the car platforms. They'll sit on top the Fifth Avenue 'buses, and you'll never give them a second thought."
"The things don't stay where they belong. I've seen 'em misbehave in musical comedies," argued Buck miserably86.
"That's where my patent comes in. The old hoop was cumbersome87, unwieldy, clumsy. The new skirt, by my patent featherboning process, is made light, graceful, easily managed. T. A., I predict that by midsummer a tight skirt will be as rare a sight as a full one was a year ago."
"Nonsense!"
"We're not quarreling, are we?"
"Quarreling! I rather think not! A man can have his own opinion, can't he?"
It appeared, however, that he could not. For when they had threshed it out, inch by inch, as might two partners whose only bond was business, it was Emma who won.
"Remember, I'm not convinced," Buck warned her; "I'm only beaten by superior force. But I do believe in your woman's intuition—I'll say that. It has never gone wrong. I'm banking88 on it.
"It's woman's intuition when we win," Emma observed, thoughtfully. "When we lose it's a foolish, feminine notion."
There were to be no half-way measures. The skirt was to be the feature of the spring line. Cutters and designers were one with Buck in thinking it a freak garment. Emma reminded them that the same thing had been said of the hobble on its appearance.
In February, Billy Spalding, veteran skirt-salesman, led a flying wedge of six on a test-trip that included the Middle West and the Coast. Their sample-trunks had to be rebuilt to accommodate the new model. Spalding, shirt-sleeved, whistling dolorously89, eyed each garment with a look of bristling90 antagonism91. Spalding sold skirts on commission.
Emma, surveying his labors92, lifted a quizzical eyebrow14.
"If you're going to sell that skirt as enthusiastically as you pack it, you'd better stay here in New York and save the house traveling expenses."
Spalding ceased to whistle. He held up a billowy sample and gazed at it.
"Honestly, Mrs. Buck, you know I'd try to sell pretzels in London if you asked me to. But do you really think any woman alive would be caught wearing a garment like this in these days?"
"Not only do I think it, Billy; I'm certain of it. This new petticoat makes me the Lincoln of the skirt trade. I'm literally93 freeing my sisters from the shackles94 that have bound their ankles for five years."
Spalding, unimpressed, folded another skirt.
"Um, maybe! But what's that line about slaves hugging their chains?"
The day following, Spalding and his flying squad95 scattered96 to spread the light among the skirt trade. And things went wrong from the start.
The first week showed an ominous97 lack of those cheering epistles beginning, "Enclosed please find," etc. The second was worse. The third was equally bad. The fourth was final. The second week in March, Spalding returned from a territory which had always been known as firmly wedded98 to the T. A. Buck Featherloom petticoat. The Middle West would have none of him.
They held the post-mortem in Emma's bright little office, and that lady herself seemed to be strangely sunny and undaunted, considering the completeness of her defeat. She sat at her desk now, very interested, very bright-eyed, very calm. Buck, in a chair at the side of her desk, was interested, too, but not so calm. Spalding, who was accustomed to talk while standing, leaned against the desk, feet crossed, brows furrowed99. As he talked, he emphasized his remarks by jabbing the air with his pencil.
"Well," said Emma quietly, "it didn't go."
"It didn't even start," corrected Spalding.
"But why?" demanded Buck. "Why?"
Spalding leaned forward a little, eagerly.
"I'll tell you something: When I started out with that little garment, I thought it was a joke. Before I'd been out with it a week, I began to like it. In ten days, I was crazy about it, and I believed in it from the waistband to the hem60. On the level, Mrs. Buck, I think it's a wonder. Now, can you explain that?"
"Yes," said Emma; "you didn't like it at first because it was a shock to you. It outraged100 all your ideas of what a skirt ought to be. Then you grew accustomed to it. Then you began to see its good points. Why couldn't you make the trade get your viewpoint?"
"This is why: Out in Manistee and Oshkosh and Terre Haute, the girls have just really learned the trick of walking in tight skirts. It's as impossible to convince a Middle West buyer that the exaggerated full skirt is going to be worn next summer as it would be to prove to him that men are going to wear sunbonnets. They thought I was trying to sell 'em masquerade costumes. I may believe in it, and you may believe in it, and T. A.; but the girls from Joplin—well, they're from Joplin. And they're waiting to hear from headquarters."
T. A. Buck crossed one leg over the other and sat up with a little sigh.
"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said.
"It does not," replied Emma McChesney Buck crisply. "If they want to hear from headquarters, they won't have long to wait."
"Now, Emma, don't try to push this thing if it——"
"T. A., please don't look so forgiving. I'd much rather have you reproach me."
"It's you I'm thinking of, not the skirt."
"But I want you to think of the skirt, too. We've gone into this thing, and it has cost us thousands. Don't think I'm going to sit quietly by and watch those thousands trickle101 out of our hands. We've played our first card. It didn't take a trick. Here's another."
Buck and Spalding were leaning forward, interested, attentive102. There was that in Emma's vivid, glowing face which did not mean defeat.
"March fifteenth, at Madison Square Garden, there is to be held the first annual exhibition of the Society for the Promotion103 of American Styles for American Women. For one hundred years we've taken our fashions as Paris dictated104, regardless of whether they outraged our sense of humor or decency105 or of fitness. This year the American designer is going to have a chance. Am I an American designer, T. A., Billy?"
"Yes!" in chorus.
"Then I shall exhibit that skirt on a live model at the First Annual American Fashion Show next month. Every skirt-buyer in the country will be there. If it takes hold there, it's made—and so are we."
March came, and with it an army of men and women buyers, dependent, for the first time in their business careers, on the ingenuity106 of the American brain. The keen-eyed legions that had advanced on Europe early, armed with letters of credit—the vast horde107 that returned each spring and autumn laden108 with their spoils—hats, gowns, laces, linens109, silks, embroideries—were obliged to content themselves with what was to be found in their own camp.
Clever manager that she was, Emma took as much pains with her model as with the skirt itself. She chose a girl whose demure110 prettiness and quiet charm would enhance the possibilities of the skirt's practicability in the eye of the shrewd buyer. Gertrude, the model, developed a real interest in the success of the petticoat. Emma knew enough about the psychology111 of crowds to realize how this increased her chances for success.
The much heralded112 fashion show was to open at one o'clock on the afternoon of March fifteenth. At ten o'clock that morning, there breezed in from Chicago a tall, slim, alert young man, who made straight for the offices of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, walked into the junior partner's private office, and took that astonished lady in his two strong arms.
"Jock McChesney!" gasped113 his rumpled114 mother, emerging from the hug. "I've been hungry for a sight of you!" She was submerged in a second hug. "Come here to the window where I can get a real look at you! Why didn't you wire me? What are you doing away from your own job? How's business? And why come to-day, of all days, when I can't make a fuss over you?"
Jock McChesney, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, steady of hand, stood up well under the satisfied scrutiny115 of his adoring mother. He smiled down at her.
"Wanted to surprise you. Here for three reasons—the Abbott Grape-juice advertising116 contract, you, and Grace. And why can't you make a fuss over me, I'd like to know?"
Emma told him. His keen, quick mind required little in the way of explanation.
"But why didn't you let me in on it sooner?"
"Because, son, nothing explains harder than embryo117 success. I always prefer to wait until it's grown up and let it do its own explaining."
"But the thing ought to have national advertising," Jock insisted, with the advertising expert's lightning grasp of its possibilities. "What that skirt needs is publicity118. Why didn't you let me handle——"
"Yes, I know, dear; but you haven't seen the skirt. It won't do to ram58 it down their throats. I want to ease it to them first. I want them to get used to it. It failed utterly119 on the road, because it jarred their notion of what a petticoat ought to be. That's due to five years of sheath skirts."
"But suppose—just for the sake of argument—that it doesn't strike them right this afternoon?"
"Then it's gone, that's all. Six months from now, every skirt-factory in the country will be manufacturing a similar garment. People will be ready for it then. I've just tried to cut in ahead of the rest. Perhaps I shouldn't have tried to do it."
Jock hugged her again at that, to the edification of the office windows across the way.
"Gad120, you're a wiz, mother! Now listen: I 'phoned Grace when I got in. She's going to meet me here at one. I'll chase over to the office now on this grape-juice thing and come back here in time for lunch. Is T. A. in? I'll look in on him a minute. We'll all lunch together, and then——"
"Can't do it, son. The show opens at one. Gertrude, my model, comes on at three. She's going to have the stage to herself for ten minutes, during which she'll make four changes of costume to demonstrate the usefulness of the skirt for every sort of gown from chiffon to velvet121. Come back here at one, if you like. If I'm not here, come over to the show. But—lunch! I'd choke."
At twelve-thirty, there scampered122 into Emma's office a very white-faced, round-eyed little stock-girl. Emma, deep in a last-minute discussion with Buck, had a premonition of trouble before the girl gasped out her message.
"Oh, Mrs. Buck, Gertie's awful sick!"
"Sick!" echoed Emma and Buck, in duet. Then Emma:
"But she can't be! It's impossible! She was all right a half hour ago." She was hurrying down the hall as she spoke123. "Where is she?"
"They've got her on one of the tables in the workroom. She's moaning awful."
Gertie's appendix, with that innate124 sense of the dramatic so often found in temperamental appendices, had indeed chosen this moment to call attention to itself. Gertie, the demurely125 pretty and quietly charming, was rolled in a very tight ball on the workroom cutting-table. At one o'clock, she was on her way home in a cab, under the care of a doctor, Miss Kelly, the bookkeeper, and Jock, who, coming in gaily126 at one, had been pressed into service, bewildered but willing.
Three rather tragic127 figures stared at one another in the junior partner's office. They were Emma, Buck, and Grace Galt, Jock's wife-to-be. Grace Galt, slim, lovely, girlish, was known, at twenty-four, as one of the most expert copy writers in the advertising world. In her clear-headed, capable manner, she tried to suggest a way out of the difficulty now.
"But surely the world's full of girls," she said. "It's late, I know; but any theatrical128 agency will send a girl over."
"That's just what I tried to avoid," Emma replied. "I wanted to show this skirt on a sweet, pretty, refined sort of girl who looks and acts like a lady. One of those blond show girls would kill it."
Gloom settled down again over the three. Emma broke the silence with a rueful little laugh.
"I think," she said, "that perhaps you're right, T. A., and this is the Lord's way of showing me that the world is not quite ready for this skirt."
"You're not beaten yet, Emma," Buck assured her vigorously. "How about this new girl—what's her name?—Myrtle. She's one of those thin, limp ones, isn't she? Try her."
"I will," said Emma. "You're right. I'm not beaten yet. I've had to fight for everything worth while in my life. I'm superstitious129 about it now. When things come easy I'm afraid of them." Then, to the stock-girl, "Annie, tell Myrtle I want to see her."
Silence fell again upon the three. Myrtle, very limp, very thin, very languid indeed, roused them at her entrance. The hopeful look in Emma's eyes faded as she beheld her. Myrtle was so obviously limp, so hopelessly new.
"Annie says you want me to take Gertie's place," drawled Myrtle, striking a magazine-cover attitude.
"I don't know that you are just the—er—type; but perhaps, if you're willing——"
"Of course I didn't come here as a model," said Myrtle, and sagged131 on the other hip84. "But, as a special favor to you I'm willing to try it—at special model's rates."
Emma ran a somewhat frenzied hand through her hair.
"Then, as a special favor to me, will you begin by trying to stand up straight, please? That debutante132 slouch would kill a queen's coronation costume."
Myrtle straightened, slumped133 again.
"I can't help it if I am willowy"—listlessly.
"Your hair!" Myrtle's hand went vaguely134 to her head. "I can't have you wear it that way."
"Why, this is the French roll!" protested Myrtle, offended.
"Then do it in a German bun!" snapped Emma. "Any way but that. Will you walk, please?"
"Walk?"—dully.
"Yes, walk; I want to see how you——"
Myrtle walked across the room. A groan135 came from Emma.
"I thought so." She took a long breath.
"Myrtle, listen: That Australian crawl was necessary when our skirts were so narrow we had to negotiate a curbing136 before we could take it. But the skirt you're going to demonstrate is wide. Like that! You're practically a free woman in it. Step out! Stride! Swing! Walk!"
Myrtle tried it, stumbled, sulked.
Emma, half smiling, half woeful, patted the girl's shoulder.
"Oh, I see; you're wearing a tight one. Well, run in and get into the skirt. Miss Loeb will help you. Then come back here—and quickly, please."
The three looked at each other in silence. It was a silence brimming with eloquent137 meaning. Each sought encouragement in the eyes of the other—and failed to find it. Failing, they broke into helpless laughter. It proved a safety-valve.
"She may do, Emma—when she has her hair done differently, and if she'll only stand up."
But Emma shook her head.
"T. A., something tells me you're going to have a wonderful chance to say, 'I told you so!' at three o'clock this afternoon."
"You know I wouldn't say it, Emma."
"Yes; I do know it, dear. But what's the difference, if the chance is there?"
Suspense138 settled down on the little office. Billy Spalding entered, smiling. After five minutes of waiting, even his buoyant spirits sank.
"Don't you think—if you were to go in and—and sort of help adjust things——" suggested Buck vaguely.
"No; I don't want to prop139 her up. She'll have to stand alone when she gets there. She'll either do, or not. When she enters that door, I'll know."
When Myrtle entered, wearing the fascinatingly fashioned new model, they all knew.
Emma spoke decisively.
"That settles it."
"What's the matter? Don't it look all right?" demanded Myrtle.
"Take it off, Myrtle."
Then, to the others, as Myrtle, sulking, left the room:
"I can stand to see that skirt die if necessary. But I won't help murder it."
"But, Mrs. Buck," protested Spalding, almost tearfully, "you've got to exhibit that skirt. You've got to!"
Emma shook a sorrowing head.
"That wouldn't be an exhibition, Billy. It would be an expose."
Spalding clapped a desperate hand to his bald head.
"If only I had Julian Eltinge's shape, I'd wear it to the show for you myself."
"That's all it needs now," retorted Emma grimly.
Whereupon, Grace Galt spoke up in her clear, decisive voice.
"Wait a minute," she said quietly. "I'm going to wear that skirt at the fashion show."
"You!" cried the three, like a trained trio.
"Why not?" demanded Grace Galt, coolly. Then: "No; don't tell me why not. I won't listen."
But Emma, equally cool, would have none of it.
"It's impossible, dear. You're an angel to want to help me. But you must know it's quite out of the question."
"It's nothing of the kind. This skirt isn't merely a fad130. It has a fortune in it. I'm business woman enough to know that. You've got to let me do it. It isn't only for yourself. It's for T. A. and for the future of the firm."
"Do you suppose I'd allow you to stand up before all those people?"
"Why not? I don't know them. They don't know me. I can make them get the idea in that skirt. And I'm going to do it. You don't object to me on the same grounds that you did to Myrtle, do you?"
"You!" burst from the admiring Spalding. "Say, you'd make a red-flannel petticoat look like crepe de Chine and lace."
"There!" said Grace, triumphant140. "That settles it!" And she was off down the hall. They stood a moment in stunned141 silence. Then:
"But Jock!" protested Emma, following her. "What will Jock say? Grace! Grace dear! I can't let you do it! I can't!"
"Just unhook this for me, will you?" replied Grace Galt sweetly.
At two o'clock, Jock McChesney, returned from his errand of mercy, burst into the office to find mother, step-father, and fiancee all flown.
"Where? What?" he demanded of the outer office.
"Fashion show!" chorused the office staff
"Might have waited for me," Jock said to himself, much injured. And hurled142 himself into a taxi.
There was a crush of motors and carriages for a block on all sides of Madison Square Garden. He had to wait for what seemed an interminable time at the box-office. Then he began the task of worming his way through the close-packed throng143 in the great auditorium144. It was a crowd such as the great place had not seen since the palmy days of the horse show. It was a crowd that sparkled and shone in silks and feathers and furs and jewels.
"Jove, if mother has half a chance at this gang!" Jock told himself. "If only she has grabbed some one who can really show that skirt!"
He was swept with the crowd toward a high platform at the extreme end of the auditorium. All about that platform stood hundreds, close packed, faces raised eagerly, the better to see the slight, graceful, girlish figure occupying the center of the stage—a figure strangely familiar to Jock's eyes in spite of its quaintly billowing, ante-bellum garb145. She was speaking. Jock, mouth agape, eyes protruding146, ears straining, heard, as in a daze147, the sweet, clear, charmingly modulated148 voice:
"The feature of the skirt, ladies and gentlemen, is that it gives a fulness without weight, something which the skirt-maker has never before been able to achieve. This is due to the patent featherboning process invented by Mrs. T. A. Buck, of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York. Note, please, that it has all the advantages of our grandmother's hoop-skirt, but none of its awkward features. It is graceful"—she turned slowly, lightly—"it is bouffant" she twirled on her toes—"it is practical, serviceable, elegant. It can be made up in any shade, in any material—silk, lace, crepe de Chine, charmeuse, taffeta. The T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company is prepared to fill orders for immediate——"
"Well, I'll be darned!" said Jock McChesney aloud. And, again, heedless of the protesting "Sh-sh-sh-sh!" that his neighbors turned upon him, "Well, I'll—be—darned!"
A hand twitched149 his coat sleeve. He turned, still dazed. His mother, very pink-cheeked, very bright-eyed, pulled him through the throng. As they reached the edge of the crowd, there came a great burst of applause, a buzz of conversation, the turning, shifting, nodding, staccato movements which mean approval in a mass of people.
"What the dickens! How!" stammered Jock. "When—did she—did she——"
Emma, half smiling, half tearful, raised a protesting hand.
"I don't know. Don't ask me, dear. And don't hate me for it. I tried to tell her not to, but she insisted. And, Jock, she's done it, I tell you! She's done it! They love the skirt! Listen to 'em!"
"Don't want to," said Jock. "Lead me to her."
"Angry, dear!"
"Me? No! I'm—I'm proud of her! She hasn't only brains and looks, that little girl; she's got nerve—the real kind! Gee150, how did I ever have the gall57 to ask her to marry me!"
Together they sped toward the door that led to the dressing-rooms. Buck, his fine eyes more luminous than ever as he looked at this wonder-wife of his, met them at the entrance.
"She's waiting for you, Jock," he said, smiling. Jock took the steps in one leap.
"Well, T. A.?" said Emma.
"Well, Emma?" said T. A.
Which burst of eloquence151 was interrupted abruptly152 by a short, squat153, dark man, who seized Emma's hand in his left and Buck's in his right, and pumped them up and down vigorously. It was that volatile154, voluble person known to the skirt trade as Abel I. Fromkin, of the "Fromkin Form-fit Skirt. It Clings!"
"I'm looking everywhere for you!" he panted. Then, his shrewd little eyes narrowing, "You want to talk business?"
"Not here," said Buck abruptly.
"Sure—here," insisted Fromkin. "Say, that's me. When I got a thing on my mind, I like to settle it. How much you take for the rights to that skirt?"
"Take for it!" exclaimed Emma, in the tone a mother would use to one who has suggested taking a beloved child from her.
"Now wait a minute. Don't get mad. You ain't started that skirt right. It should have been advertised. It's too much of a shock. You'll see. They won't buy. They're afraid of it. I'll take it off your hands and push it right, see? I offer you forty thousand for the rights to make that skirt and advertise it as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares155!'"
Emma smiled.
"How much?" she asked quizzically.
Abel I. Fromkin gulped156.
"Fifty thousand," he said.
"Fifty thousand," repeated Emma quietly, and looked at Buck. "Thanks, Mr. Fromkin! I know, now, that if it's worth fifty thousand to you to-day as the 'Fromkin Full-flounce Skirt. It Flares!' then it's worth one hundred and fifty thousand to us as the 'T. A. Buck Balloon-Petticoat. It Billows!'"
And it was.
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1
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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2
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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yardstick
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| n.计算标准，尺度；评价标准 | |
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5
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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7
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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8
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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9
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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10
craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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11
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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12
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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13
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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14
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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15
hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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16
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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17
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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18
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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19
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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20
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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22
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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23
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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25
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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26
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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27
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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28
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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29
intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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30
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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31
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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32
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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33
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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34
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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35
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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36
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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37
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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38
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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39
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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40
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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41
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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43
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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44
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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45
censors
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| 删剪（书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容）( censor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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47
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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48
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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49
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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50
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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51
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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52
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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53
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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54
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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55
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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56
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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57
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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58
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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59
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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60
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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61
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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62
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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63
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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64
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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66
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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68
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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69
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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70
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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71
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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72
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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73
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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74
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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75
bouffant
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| adj.（发式、裙子等）向外胀起的 | |
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76
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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77
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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78
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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79
dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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80
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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81
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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82
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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83
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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84
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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85
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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86
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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87
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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88
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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89
dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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90
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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91
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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92
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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93
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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94
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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95
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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96
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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97
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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98
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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101
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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102
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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103
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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104
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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105
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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106
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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107
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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108
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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109
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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110
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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111
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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112
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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113
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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114
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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116
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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117
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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118
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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119
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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120
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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121
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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122
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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124
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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125
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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126
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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127
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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128
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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129
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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130
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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131
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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132
debutante
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| n.初入社交界的少女 | |
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133
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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134
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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135
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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136
curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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137
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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138
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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139
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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140
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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141
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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143
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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144
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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145
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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146
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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147
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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148
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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149
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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151
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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152
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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153
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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154
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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155
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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156
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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