The millinery buyer sighed impatiently.
“Are you busy being the important young executive, Pat?”
“Yes—you talk.”
The millinery buyer began to drum her fingers on the desk. Oh, to hell
with her. I could feel myself getting ecstatically pink.
“Something reminded me of to you today, Pat. Will you go to dinner with
me tonight?”
“Yes, what time?”
“Seven?”
“I’ll be working late, Peter darling—could you meet me here? They’ll
let you in at the side door if you ask for me.”
The millinery buyer walked out. Something would have to be done about
her, swiftly, but not instantly.
“All right, I’ll do that, Pat. Seven o’clock.”
The desk and the window and the rug and the typewriter spun around
gaily. I assumed a formal expression, and called the ambitious
copy-writer. “Take care of things here, for ten minutes, will you
please? I’m going down to the millinery department. And telephone the
shoe buyer. Be very sweet to him and ask him to please come see me as
soon as possible. Tell him I want to consult with him about giving him
adequate representation on Sunday, instead of inadequate representation
Friday.” The child beamed. She would be an assistant advertising manager
yet, God help her. At my office door I collided with the layout man
coming in with the Friday layout.
“Listen, Milt,” I said, “take out shoes and give all that space to
millinery.”
“God damn,” he said, “I’ve made over this page four times. Millinery has
to go at the _top_.”
“There, there,” I said walking past him.
I heard my telephone ring. The young copy-writer called me back. “It’s
the ‘Times,’ _very_ mad about the rotogravure ad. What shall I tell
them?”
“Give ’em my love and tell them all will be well ultimately.”