as they did so.  Near Mrs. McChesney sat Sam Hupp, he of the lightning brain and the sure-fire copy.  Emma McChesney, strangely silent, kept her eyes intent on the faces of the others.  T.A.  Buck, interested, enthusiastic, but somewhat uncertain, glanced now and then at his silent business partner, found no satisfaction in her set face, and glanced away again.  Grace Galt, unbelievably young and pretty to have won a place for herself in that conference of business people, smiled in secret at Jock McChesney’s evident struggle to conceal his elation at being present at this, his first staff meeting.

The conference had lasted one hour now.  In that time Featherloom petticoats had been picked to pieces, bit by bit, from hem to waist-band.  Nothing had been left untouched.  Every angle had come under the keen vision of the advertising experts—­the comfort of the garment, its durability, style, cheapness, service.  Which to emphasize?

“H—­m, novelty campaign, in my opinion,” said Hopper, breaking one of his long silences.  “There’s nothing new in petticoats themselves, you know.  You’ve got to give ’em a new angle.”

“Yep,” agreed Hupp.  “Start out with a feature skirt.  Might illustrate with one of those freak drawings they’re crazy about now—­slinky figure, you know, hollow-chested, one foot trailing, and all that.  They’re crazy, but they do attract attention, no doubt of that.”

Bartholomew Berg turned his head slowly.  “What’s your opinion, Mrs. McChesney?” he asked.

“I—­I’m afraid I haven’t any,” said Emma McChesney listlessly.  T.A.  Buck stared at her in dismay and amazement.

“How about you, Mr. Buck?”

“Why—­I—­er—­of course this advertising game’s new to me.  I’m really leaving it in your hands.  I really thought that Mrs. McChesney’s idea was to make a point of the fact that these petticoats were not freak petticoats, but skirts for the everyday women.  She gave me what I thought was a splendid argument a week ago.”  He turned to her helplessly.

Mrs. McChesney sat silent.

Bartholomew Berg leaned forward a little and smiled one of his rare smiles.

“Won’t you tell us, Mrs. McChesney?  We’d all like to hear what you have to say.”

Mrs. McChesney looked down at her hands.  Then she looked up, and addressed what she had to say straight to Bartholomew Berg.

“I—­simply didn’t want to interfere in this business.  I know nothing about it, really.  Of course, I do know Featherloom petticoats.  I know all about them.  It seemed to me that just because the newspapers and magazines were full of pictures showing spectacular creatures in impossible attitudes wearing tango tea skirts, we are apt to forget that those types form only a thin upper crust, and that down beneath there are millions and millions of regular, everyday women doing regular everyday things in regular everyday clothes.  Women who wash on Monday, and