advertising was merely a matter of salesmanship by paper
and ink, nor that Mr. Ross's assistants, who wrote the copy and drew the
pictures and selected the mediums and got the "mats" over to the agency
on time, were real advertising men. No, the trusting old pirate believed
it was also necessary to have an ordained advertising-manager like Mr.
Ross, a real initiate, who could pull a long face and talk about "the
psychology of the utilitarian appeal" and "pulling power" and all the
rest of the theology. So he, who paid packing-girls as little as four
dollars a week, paid Mr. Ross fifteen thousand dollars a year, and let
him have competent assistants, and invited him out to the big, lonely,
unhappy Pemberton house in the country, and listened to his sacerdotal
discourses, and let him keep four or five jobs at once. For, besides
being advertising-manager for Pemberton's, Mr. Ross went off to deliver
Lyceum lectures and Chautauqua addresses and club chit-chats on the
blessings of selling more soap or underwear; and for the magazines he
wrote prose poems about stars, and sympathy, and punch, and early
rising, and roadside flowers, and argosies, and farming, and saving
money.

All this doge-like splendor Una discovered, but could scarcely believe,
for in his own office Mr. Ross seemed but as the rest of us--a small
round man, with a clown-like little face and hair cut Dutch-wise across
his forehead. When he smoked a big cigar he appeared naughty. One
expected to see his mother come and judiciously smack him. But more and
more Una felt the force of his attitude that he was a genius
incomparable. She could not believe that he knew what a gorgeous fraud
he was. On the same day, he received an advance in salary, discharged an
assistant for requesting an advance in salary, and dictated a magazine
filler to the effect that the chief duty of executives was to advance
salaries. She could not chart him.... Thus for thousands of years have
servants been amazed at the difference between pontiffs in the pulpit
and pontiffs in the pantry.

Doubtless it helped Mr. Ross in maintaining his sublimity to dress like
a cleric--black, modest suits of straight lines, white shirts, small,
black ties. But he also wore silk socks, which he reflectively scratched
while he was dictating. He was of an elegance in linen handkerchiefs, in
a chased-gold cigarette-case, in cigarettes with a monogram. Indeed, he
often stopped during dictation to lean acros