It was a grim little meal, eaten almost in silence.  Emma McChesney had made it a rule to use luncheon time as a recess.  She played mental tag and hop-scotch, so that, returning to her office refreshed in mind and body, she could attack the afternoon’s work with new vigor.  And never did she talk or think business.

To-day she ate her luncheon with a forced appetite, glanced about with a listlessness far removed from her usual alert interest, and followed Jock’s attempts at conversation with a polite effort that was more insulting than downright inattention.

“Dessert, Mother?” Jock had to say it twice before she heard.

“What?  Oh, no—­I think not.”

The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows insinuatingly.  “The French pastry’s particularly nice to-day, madam.  If you’d care to try something?  Eclair, madam—­peach tart—­mocha tart—­caramel—­”

Emma McChesney smiled.  “It does sound tempting.”  She glanced at Jock.  “And we’re wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it makes no difference whether one’s fat or not.”  She turned to the waiter.  “I never can tell till I see them.  Bring your pastry tray, will you?”

Jock McChesney’s finger and thumb came together with a snap.  He leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips parted and eager.  “There! you’ve proved my point.”

“Point?”

“About advertising.  No, don’t stop me.  Don’t you see that what applies to pastry applies to petticoats?  You didn’t think of French pastry until he suggested it to you—­advertised it, really.  And then you wanted a picture of them.  You wanted to know what they looked like before buying.  That’s all there is to advertising.  Telling people about a thing, making ’em want it, and showing ’em how it will look when they have it.  Get me?”

Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated stare.  It was a blank little look, such as we sometimes wear when the mind is working furiously.  If the insinuating waiter, presenting the laden tray for her inspection, was startled by the rapt expression which she turned upon the cunningly wrought wares, he was too much a waiter to show it.

A pause.  “That one,” said Mrs. McChesney, pointing to the least ornate.  She ate it, down to the last crumb, in a silence that was pregnant with portent.  She put down her fork and sat back.

“Jock, you win.  I—­I suppose I have fallen out of step.  Perhaps I’ve been too busy watching my own feet.  T.A. will be back next week.  Could your office have an advertising plan roughly sketched by that time?”

“Could they!” His tone was exultant.  “Watch ’em!  Hupp’s been crazy to make Featherlooms famous.”

“But look here, son.  I want a hand in that copy.  I know Featherlooms better than your Sam Hupp will ever—­”

Jock shook his head.  “They won’t stand for that, Mother.  It never works.  The manufacturer always thinks he can write magic stuff because he knows his own product.  But he never can.  You see, he knows too much.  That’s it.  No perspective.”