“We’ll see,” said Emma McChesney curtly.

So it was that ten days later the first important conference in the interests of the Featherloom Petticoat Company’s advertising campaign was called.  But in those ten days of hurried preparation a little silent tragedy had come about.  For the first time in her brave, sunny life Emma McChesney had lost faith in herself.  And with such malicious humor does Fate work her will that she chose Sam Hupp’s new dictagraph as the instrument with which to prick the bubble of Mrs. McChesney’s self-confidence.

Sam Hupp, one of the copy-writing marvels of the Berg, Shriner firm, had a trick of forgetting to shut off certain necessary currents when he paused in his dictation to throw in conversational asides.  The old and experienced stenographers, had learned to look out for that, and to eliminate from their typewritten letters certain irrelevant and sometimes irreverent asides which Sam Hupp evidently had addressed to his pipe, or the office boy, and not intended for the tube of the all-devouring dictagraph.

There was a new and nervous little stenographer in the outer office, and she had not been warned of this.

“We think very highly of the plan you suggest,” Sam Hupp had said into the dictagraph’s mouthpiece.  “In fact, in one of your valuable copy suggestions you—­”

Without changing his tone he glanced over his shoulder at his colleague, Hopper, who was listening and approving.

“...  Let the old girl think the idea is her own.  She’s virtually the head of that concern, and they’ve spoiled her.  Successful, and used to being kowtowed to.  Doesn’t know her notions of copy are ten years behind the advertising game—­”

And went on with his letter again.  After which he left the office to play golf.  And the little blond numbskull in the outer office dutifully took down what the instrument had to say, word for word, marked it, “Dictated, but not read,” signed neat initials, and with a sigh went on with the rest of her sheaf of letters.

Emma McChesney read the letter next morning.  She read it down to the end, and then again.  The two readings were punctuated with a little gasp, such as we give when an icy douche is suddenly turned upon us.  And that was all.

A week later an intent little group formed a ragged circle about the big table in the private office of Bartholomew Berg, head of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company.  Bartholomew Berg himself, massive, watchful, taciturn, managing to give an impression of power by his very silence, sat at one side of the long table.  Just across from him a sleek-haired stenographer bent over her note book, jotting down every word, that the conference might make business history.  Hopper, at one end of the room, studied his shoe heel intently.  He was unbelievably boyish looking to command the fabulous salary reported to be his.  Advertising men, mentioning his name, pulled a figurative forelock