with a
little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly
turned upon us. And that was all.

A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about
the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of
the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Bartholomew Berg himself,
massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of
power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table. Just
across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note
book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make
business history. Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe
heel intently. He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the
fabulous salary reported to be his. Advertising men, mentioning
his name, pulled a figurative forelock as they did so. Near Mrs.
McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the
sure-fire copy. Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes
intent on the faces of the others. T.A. Buck, interested,
enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his
silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face,
and glanced away again. Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty
to have won a place for herself in that conference of business
people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney's evident struggle to
conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff
meeting.

The conference had lasted one hour now. In that time Featherloom
petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to
waist-band. Nothing had been left untouched. Every angle had come
under the keen vision of the advertising experts--the comfort of
the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service. Which to
emphasize?

"H--m, novelty campaign, in my opinion," said Hopper, breaking one
of his long silences. "There's nothing new in petticoats
themselves, you know. You've got to give 'em a new angle."

"Yep," agreed Hupp. "Start out with a feature skirt. Might
illustrate with one of those freak drawings they're crazy about
now--slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing,
and all that. They're crazy, but they do attract attention, no
doubt of that."

Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly. "What's your opinion,
Mrs. McChesney?" he asked.

"I--I'm afraid I haven't any," said Emma McChesney listlessly.
T.A. Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement.

"How about you, Mr. Buck?"

"Why--I--er--of course this advertising g