-days, and for a lamentably long time after, had been known as
"Beau" Buck, because of his faultless clothes and his charming manner.
His eyes had something to do with it, too, no doubt. He had lived down
the title by sheer force of business ability. No one thought of using
the nickname now, though the clothes, the manner, and the eyes were the
same. At the entrance of the three women, he had been engrossed in the
difficult task of selling a fall line to Mannie Nussbaum, of Portland,
Oregon. Mannie was what is known as a temperamental buyer. He couldn't
be forced; he couldn't be coaxed; he couldn't be led. But when he
liked a line he bought like mad, never cancelled, and T. A. Buck had
just got him going. It spoke volumes for his self-control that he
could advance toward the waiting three, his manner correct, his
expression bland.

"I am Mr. Buck," he said. "Mrs. Buck is very much engaged. I
understand your visit has something to do with the girls in the shop.
I'm sure our manager will be able to answer any questions----"

The eldest women raised a protesting, white-gloved hand.

"Oh, no--no, indeed! We must see Mrs. Buck." She spoke in the crisp,
decisive platform-tones of one who is often addressed as "Madam
Chairman."

Buck took a firmer grip on his self-control.

"I'm sorry; Mrs. Buck is in the cutting-room."

"We'll wait," said the lady, brightly. She stepped back a pace. "This
is Miss Susan H. Croft"--indicating a rather sparse person of very
certain years--"But I need scarcely introduce her."

"Scarcely," murmured Buck, and wondered why.

"This is my daughter, Miss Gladys Orton-Wells."

Buck found himself wondering why this slim, negative creature should
have such sad eyes. There came an impatient snort from Mannie
Nussbaum. Buck waved a hasty hand in the direction of Emma's office.

"If you'll wait there, I'll send in to Mrs. Buck."

The three turned toward Emma's bright little office. Buck scribbled a
hasty word on one of the cards.

Emma McChesney Buck was leaning over the great cutting-table, shears in
hand. It might almost be said that she sprawled. Her eyes were very
bright, and her cheeks were very pink. Across the table stood a
designer and two cutters, and they were watching Emma with an
intentness as flattering as it was sincere. They were looking not only
at cloth but at an idea.

"Get that?" asked Emma crisply, and tapped the pattern spread before
her with the point