ose
for--Hello! Miss Galt?"

Jock, seated on the edge of the models' platform, was beginning to
enjoy himself. Even this end of the advertising business had its
interesting side, he thought. Ten minutes later he knew it had.

Ten minutes later there appeared Miss Galt. Jock left off
swinging his legs from the platform and stood up. Miss Galt was
that kind of girl. Smooth black hair parted and coiled low as only
an exquisitely shaped head can dare to wear its glory-crown. A
face whose expression was sweetly serious in spite of its youth. A
girl whose clothes were the sort of clothes that girls ought to
wear in offices, and don't.

"This is mighty good of you, Miss Galt," began Von Herman. "It's
the Kool Komfort Klothes Company's summer campaign stuff. We'll
only need you for an hour or so--to get the expression and general
outline. Poster stuff, really. Then this young man will pose for
the summer union suit pictures."

"Don't apologize," said Miss Galt. "We had a hard enough time to
get that Kool Komfort account. We don't want to start wrong with
the pictures. Besides, I think posing's real fun."

Jock thought so too, quite suddenly. Just as suddenly Von Herman
remembered the conventions and introduced them.

"McChesney?" repeated Miss Galt, crisply. "I know a Mrs.
McChesney, of the T.A. Buck--"

"My mother," proudly.

"Your mother! Then why--" She stopped.

"Because," said Jock, "I'm the rawest rooky in the Berg, Shriner
Company. And when I begin to realize what I don't know about
advertising I'll probably want to plunge off the Palisades."

Miss Galt smiled up at him, her clear, frank eyes meeting his.

"You'll win," she said.

"Even if I lose--I win now," said Jock, suddenly audacious.

"Hi! Hold that pose!" called Von Herman, happily.

[Illustration: "'Hi! Hold that pose!' called Von Herman"]

II

PERSONALITY PLUS

There are seven stages in the evolution of that individual whose
appearance is the signal for a listless "Who-do-you-want-to-see?"
from the white-bloused, drab-haired, anaemic little girl who sits
in the outer office forever reading last month's magazines. The
badge of fear brands the novice. Standing hat in hand, nervous,
apprehensive, gulpy, with the elevator door clanging behind him,
and the sacred inner door closed before him, he offers up a silent
and paradoxical "Thank heaven!" at the office girl's languid "Not
in," and dives into the friendly shelter of the next elev