“You can go now, Gert.”

“Yes, madam.”

Miss Dobriner adjusted a spray of curls.  Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door.

“Did—­did Du Gass order that fish-tail model, madam?”

Madam Moores dallied with her appointment-book.  Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door.

“Yes, in green.”

“If I had her complexion I’d wear sandpaper to match it.”

“We haven’t all of us got the looks, Gert, that’ll get us four-carat stones to wear down to a twenty-dollar-a-week job.”

Miss Dobriner’s hand flew to her throat and the gem that gleamed there.  “I—­I guess I can buy a stone on time for myself without—­without any insinuations.”

“You can wear the stone, all right, Gert, but you can’t get past the insinuations.”

“I—­I ain’t so stuck on this place, madam, that I got to stand for your insinuations.”

“No, it ain’t the place you’re stuck on that keeps you here, Gert.”

They regarded each other through eyes banked with the red fires of anger, and beside the full-length mirror Miss Dobriner trembled as she stood.

“You can think what you please, madam.  I—­I’m hired by Phonzie and I’m here to wear models and not to steer your thinking.”

Madam Moores sat so tense in her chair that her weight did not relax to it.  “You and me can’t have no fusses, you know that, don’t you?  I give Phonzie the run of my floor, and he’s the one has to deal with—­with freshness.”

“You—­you started it, madam.  I—­can get along with anybody.  I don’t have to stay in a place where I’m not wanted; it’s just because Phonzie—­”

“We won’t fuss about it, Gertie.  I’m the last one to fall out with my help.”

Silence.

“Did—­did Laidlaw order that trotteur model in plaid, Gert?”

“No; she’s coming back to-morrow.”

“To-day’s the day to land an order.”

“She says that pongee we made her last spring never fit her slick enough between the shoulders.  I felt like telling her we don’t guarantee to fit tubs.”

“You got to handle Laidlaw right, Gert.  There’ll be two trousseaux and a ball in that family before June.  The best way to lose a customer like Laidlaw is to sell her what she ought to wear instead of what she wants to wear.”

“Handle her right!  I wore rubber gloves.  Did I quiver an eyelash when she ordered that pink organdie, and didn’t Phonzie nearly double up when he took down the order?  You want to see her measurements.  I’ll get the book and—­”

“No, no, Gert; you can go on.  I got to stay and go over the appointments with Phonzie.”

A quick red flowed up and under the rouged surface of Miss Dobriner’s cheeks.  “Oh—­excuse me!”

“What!”

“I—­All right, I’m going.”

She readjusted her hat, a tiny winged chariot of pink straw and designed after fashion’s most epileptic caprice, coaxed her ringed fingers into a pair of but slightly soiled white gloves, her eyes the while staring past her slim reflection in the mirror and on to the mauve-colored swinging-door.