"Then what--"
Ray's little smile grew a trifle more uncertain. "--I had the
money--last week--I was going to--The baby took sick--the heat I guess,
coming so sudden. We had the doctor--and medicine--I--Say, your own
folks come before black one-piece dresses!"
Miss Jevne's cold eyes saw the careful patch under Ray's left arm where
a few days before the torn place had won her a reproof. It was the last
straw.
"You can't stay in this department in that rig!"
"Who says so?" snapped Ray with a flash of Halsted Street bravado. "If
my customers want a peek at Paquin I'll send 'em to you."
"I'll show you who says so!" retorted Miss Jevne, quite losing sight of
the queen business. The stately form of the floor manager was visible
among the glass showcases beyond. Miss Jevne sought him agitatedly. All
the little sagging lines about her mouth showed up sharply, defying
years of careful massage.
The floor manager bent his stately head and listened. Then, led by Miss
Jevne, he approached Ray Willets, whose deft fingers, trembling a very
little now, were still pretending to adjust the perfect pink-satin bow.
The manager touched her on the arm not unkindly. "Report for work in the
kitchen utensils, fifth floor," he said. Then at sight of the girl's
face: "We can't have one disobeying orders, you know. The rest of the
clerks would raise a row in no time."
Down in the kitchen utensils and household goods there was no rule
demanding modest but modish one-piece gowns. In the kitchenware one
could don black sateen sleevelets to protect one's clean white waist
without breaking the department's tenets of fashion. You could even pin
a handkerchief across the front of your waist, if your job was that of
dusting the granite ware.
At first Ray's delicate fingers, accustomed to the touch of soft, sheer
white stuff and ribbon and lace and silk, shrank from contact with meat
grinders, and aluminum stewpans, and egg beaters, and waffle irons, and
pie tins. She handled them contemptuously. She sold them listlessly.
After weeks of expatiating to customers on the beauties and excellencies
of gossamer lingerie she found it difficult to work up enthusiasm over
the virtues of dishpans and spice boxes. By noon she was less resentful.
By two o'clock she was saying to a fellow clerk:
"Well, anyway, in this section you don't have to tell a woman how
graceful and charming she's going to look while she's working the
washing machine."
She was a born saleswoman. In spite of herself she became interested
in the buying problems of the practical and plain-visaged housewives
who patronised this section. By three o'clock she was looking
thoughtful--thoughtful and contented.
Then came the summons. The lingerie section was swamped! Report to Miss
Jevne at once! Almost regretfully Ray gave her customer over to an idle
clerk and sought out Miss Jevne. Some of that lady's statuesqueness was
gone. The bar pin on her bosom rose and fell rapidly. She espied Ray and
met her halfway. In her hand she carried a soft black something which
she thrust at Ray.
"Here, put that on in one of the fitting rooms. Be quick about it. It's
your size. The department's swamped. Hurry now!"
Ray took from Miss Jevne the black silk gown, modest but modish. There
was no joy in Ray's face. Ten minutes later she emerged in the limp and
clinging little frock that toned down her colour and made her plumpness
seem but rounded charm.
The big store will talk for many a day of that afternoon and the three
afternoons that followed, until Sunday brought pause to the thousands of
feet beating a ceaseless tattoo up and down the thronged aisles. On the
Monday following thousands swarmed down upon the store again, but not in
such overwhelming numbers. There were breathing spaces. It was during
one of these that Miss Myrtle, the beauty, found time for a brief
moment's chat with Ray Willets.
Ray was straightening her counter again. She had a passion for order.
Myrtle eyed her wearily. Her slender shoulders had carried an endless
number and variety of garments during those four days and her feet had
paced weary miles that those garments might the better be displayed.
"Black's grand on you," observed Myrtle. "Tones you down." She glanced
sharply at the gown. "Looks just like one of our eighteen-dollar models.
Copy it?"
"No," said Ray, still straightening petticoats and corset covers. Myrtle
reached out a weary, graceful arm and touched one of the lacy piles
adorned with cunning bows of pink and blue to catch the shopping eye.
"Ain't that sweet!" she exclaimed. "I'm crazy about that shadow lace.
It's swell under voiles. I wonder if I could take one of them home to
copy it."
Ray glanced up. "Oh, that!" she said contemptuously. "That's just a
cheap skirt. Only twelve-fifty. Machine-made lace. Imitation
embroidery--"
She stopped. She stared a moment at Myrtle with the fixed and wide-eyed
gaze of one who does not see.
"What'd I just say to you?"
"Huh?" ejaculated Myrtle, mystified.
"What'd I just say?" repeated Ray.
Myrtle laughed, half understanding. "You said that was a cheap junk
skirt at only twelve-fifty, with machine lace and imitation--"
But Ray Willets did not wait to hear the rest. She was off down the
aisle toward the elevator marked "Employées." The superintendent's
office was on the ninth floor. She stopped there. The grey
superintendent was writing at his desk. He did not look up as Ray
entered, thus observing rules one and two in the proper conduct of
superintendents when interviewing employees. Ray Willets, standing by
his desk, did not cough or wriggle or rustle her skirts or sag on one
hip. A consciousness of her quiet penetrated the superintendent's mind.
He glanced up hurriedly over his left shoulder. Then he laid down his
pencil and sat up slowly.
"Oh, it's you!" he said.
"Yes, it's me," replied Ray Willets simply. "I've been here a month
to-day."
"Oh, yes." He ran his fingers through his hair so that the brown
forelock stood away from the grey. "You've lost some of your roses," he
said, and tapped his cheek. "What's the trouble?"
"I guess it's the dress," explained Ray, and glanced down at the folds
of her gown. She hesitated a moment awkwardly. "You said you'd send for
me at the end of the month. You didn't."
"That's all right," said the grey superintendent. "I was pretty sure I
hadn't made a mistake. I can gauge applicants pretty fairly. Let's
see--you're in the lingerie, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Then with a rush: "That's what I want to talk to you about. I've changed
my mind. I don't want to stay in the lingeries. I'd like to be
transferred to the kitchen utensils and household goods."
"Transferred! Well, I'll see what I can do. What was the name now? I
forget."
A queer look stole into Ray Willets' face, a look of determination and
shrewdness.
"Name?" she said. "My name is Rachel Wiletzky."