that swayed with each step, to the soft folds of black against which rested the very real diamond and platinum bar pin, up to the lace at her throat, and then stopping, blinking and staring again gazed fixedly at the string of pearls that lay about her throat, pearls rosily pink, mistily grey.  An aura of self-satisfaction enveloping her, Miss Jevne disappeared behind the rose-garlanded portals of the new cream-and-mauve French section.  And there the aura vanished, quivering.  For standing before one of the plate-glass cases and patting into place with deft fingers the satin bow of a hand-wrought chemise was Ray Willets, in her shiny little black serge skirt and the braver of her two white shirtwaists.

Miss Jevne quickened her pace.  Ray turned.  Her bright brown eyes grew brighter at sight of Miss Jevne’s wondrous black.  Miss Jevne, her train wound round her feet like an actress’ photograph, lifted her eyebrows to an unbelievable height.

“Explain that costume!” she said.

“Costume?” repeated Ray, fencing.

Miss Jevne’s thin lips grew thinner.  “You understood that women in this department were to wear black one-piece gowns this week!”

Ray smiled a little twisted smile.  “Yes, I understood.”

“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.