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.”