“Now, just to show you that I know what I’m talking about, Arnheim, I got the best lines of new models for this season I’ve had since I’m in business—­every one of them domestics too.  I’m puttin’ some made-in-America models in the import-room to-day that will open your eyes.”

Mr. Arnheim laughed and opened his portfolio.  “I’ll show you these till my trunks come up,” he said.

“Just a minute, Arnheim.  I want to show you some stuff—­Miss Sternberger!” Mrs. Schlimberg raised her voice slightly, “Miss Sternberger!”

Almost immediately a svelte, black-gowned figure appeared in the doorway; she wore her hair oval about her face, like a Mona Lisa, and her hands were long and the dusky white of ivory.

“Mr. Arnheim, I want to introduce you to a designer we’ve got since you went away.  Mr. Arnheim—­Miss Sternberger.”

The whir of sewing-machines from the workrooms cut the silence.

“How do you do?” said Miss Sternberger.

“How do you do?” said Mr. Arnheim.

“Miss Sternberger is like you, Mr. Arnheim—­she’s always out after novelties; and I will say for her she don’t miss out!  She put out a line of uncut velvets last winter that was the best sellers we had.”

Mr. Arnheim bowed.  Mrs. Schlimberg turned to Miss Sternberger.

“Miss Sternberger, will you bring in some of those new models that are going like hot cakes?  Just on the forms will do.”

“Certainly.”  She disappeared from the doorway.

Mrs. Schlimberg tapped her forefinger on the desk.  “There’s the finest little designer we’ve ever had!  I got her off a Philadelphia house, and I ‘ain’t never regretted the money I’m payin’ her.  She’s done more for the house in eight months than Miss Isaacs did in ten years!”

Miss Sternberger returned; a stock-boy wheeled in the new models on wooden figures while Mrs. Schlimberg and her new designer arranged them for display.  Mrs. Schlimberg turned to Mr. Arnheim.

“How’s the wife and boys, Arnheim?  I ’ain’t seen ’em since you brought ’em all in to see the Labor Day parade from the store windows last fall.  Them’s fine boys you got there, Arnheim!”

“Thanks,” said Arnheim.

“Now, Arnheim, I’m here to ask you if you can beat these.  Look at that there peach-bloom Piquette—­look!  Can you beat it?  That there’s the new butterfly skirt—­just one year ahead of anything that’s being shown this season.”  Mrs. Schlimberg turned to a second model.  “Look at this here ratine cutaway.  If the Phoebe Snow ain’t the talk of New York before next week, then I don’t know my own name.  Ain’t it so, Miss Sternberger?”

Miss Sternberger ran her smooth hand over the lace shoulder of the gown.  “This is a great seller,” she replied, smiling at Mr. Arnheim.  “Lillian Russell is going to wear it in the second act of her new play when she opens to-morrow night.”

“I guess we’re slow in here,” chuckled Mrs. Schlimberg, nudging Mr. Arnheim with the point of her elbow.