In your mind’s eye you saw her, a stout, well-stayed figure in tight brassiere and scant petticoat, bare-armed and bare-bosomed, in smart hat and veil, attired as though for the street from the neck up and for the bedroom from the shoulders down.

The East-End set bought Sophy Decker’s hats because they were modish and expensive hats.  But she managed, miraculously, to gain a large and lucrative following among the paper-mill girls and factory hands as well.  You would have thought that any attempt to hold both these opposites would cause her to lose one or the other.  Aunt Sophy said, frankly, that of the two, she would have preferred to lose her smart trade.

“The mill girls come in with their money in their hands, you might say.  They get good wages and they want to spend them.  I wouldn’t try to sell them one of those little plain model hats.  They wouldn’t understand ’em, or like them.  And if I told them the price they’d think I was trying to cheat them.  They want a velvet hat with something good and solid on it.  Their fathers wouldn’t prefer caviar to pork roast, would they?  It’s the same idea.”

Her shop windows reflected her business acumen.  One was chastely, severely elegant, holding a single hat poised on a slender stick.  In the other were a dozen honest arrangements of velvet and satin and plumes.

At the spring opening she always displayed one of those little toques completely covered with violets.  No one ever bought a hat like that.  No one ever will.  That violet-covered toque is a symbol.

“I don’t expect ’em to buy it,” Sophy Decker explained.  “But everybody feels there should be a hat like that at a spring opening.  It’s like a fruit centre-piece at a family dinner.  Nobody ever eats it but it has to be there.”

The two Baldwin children—­Adele and Eugene—­found Aunt Sophy’s shop a treasure trove.  Adele, during her doll days, possessed such boxes of satin and velvet scraps, and bits of lace, and ribbon and jet as to make her the envy of all her playmates.  She used to crawl about the floor of the shop workroom and under the table and chairs like a little scavenger.

“What in the world do you do with all that truck, child?” asked Aunt Sophy.  “You must have barrels of it.”

Adele stuffed another wisp of tulle into the pocket of her pinafore.  “I keep it,” she said.

When she was ten Adele had said to her mother, “Why do you always say ’Poor Sophy’?”

“Because Aunt Sophy’s had so little in life.  She never has married, and has always worked.”

Adele considered that.  “If you don’t get married do they say you’re poor?”

“Well—­yes—­”

“Then I’ll get married,” announced Adele.  A small, dark, eerie child, skinny and rather foreign looking.

The boy, Eugene, had the beauty which should have been the girl’s.  Very tall, very blond, with the straight nose and wistful eyes of the Flora of twenty years ago.  “If only Adele could have had his looks,” his mother used to say.  “They’re wasted on a man.  He doesn’t need them but a girl does.  Adele will have to be well-dressed and interesting.  And that’s such hard work.”