He smiled down at her, calm, self-assured, impudent.  A little flush grew in Emma McChesney’s cheeks.

“I’ve always said,” she began, crisply, “that one could pretty well judge a man’s character, temperament, morals, and physical make-up by just glancing at his expense account.  The trouble with you is that you haven’t learned the art of spending money wisely.  It isn’t always the man with the largest expense sheet that gets the most business.  And it isn’t the man who leaves the greatest number of circles on the table top in his hotel room, either.”  She paused a moment.  Ed Meyers’s smile had lost some of its heartiness.  “Mr. Buck’s out of town, as you know.  He’ll be back next week.  He wasn’t in favor of—­”

“Now, Mrs. McChesney,” interrupted Ed Meyers nervously, “you know there’s always one live one in every firm, just like there’s always one star in every family.  You’re the—­”

“I’m the one who wants to know how you could spend sixty-nine dollars for two days’ incidentals in Iowa.  Iowa!  Why, look here, Ed Meyers, I made Iowa for ten years when I was on the road.  You know that.  And you know, and I know, that in order to spend sixty-nine dollars for incidentals in two days in Iowa you have to call out the militia.”

“Not when you’re trying to win the love of every skirt buyer from Sioux City to Des Moines.”

Emma McChesney rose impatiently.  “Oh, that’s nonsense!  You don’t need to do that these days.  Those are old-fashioned methods.  They’re out of date.  They—­”

At that a little sound came from Jock.  Emma heard it, glanced at him, turned away again in confusion.

“I was foolish enough in the first place to give you this job for old times’ sake,” she continued hurriedly.

Fat Ed Meyers’ face drooped dolefully.  He cocked his round head on one side fatuously.  “For old times’ sake,” he repeated, with tremulous pathos, and heaved a gusty sigh.

“Which goes to show that I need a guardian,” finished Emma McChesney cruelly.  “The only old times that I can remember are when I was selling Featherlooms, and you were out for the Sans-Silk Skirt Company, both covering the same territory, and both running a year-around race to see which could beat the other at his own game.  The only difference was that I always played fair, while you played low-down whenever you had a chance.”

“Now, my dear Mrs. McChesney—­”

“That’ll be all,” said Emma McChesney, as one whose patience is fast slipping away.  “Mr. Buck will see you next week.”  Then, turning to her son as the door closed on the drooping figure of the erstwhile buoyant Meyers, “Where’ll we lunch, Jock?”

“Mother,” Jock broke out hotly, “why in the name of all that’s foolish do you persist in using the methods of Methuselah!  People don’t sell goods any more by sending out fat old ex-traveling men to jolly up the trade.”

“Jock,” repeated Emma McChesney slowly, “where—­shall—­we—­lunch?”