“Pay, indeed! You should be charged for the materials you spoiled in your morning’s work.”
“But in the afternoon,” said Patty, “I trimmed three hats that will bring you big profits.”
“Nothing of the sort,” snapped Madame. “The hats you trimmed are nothing of any moment. Any of my girls could have done as well.”
“Then why don’t you pay them twelve dollars a week?” cried Patty, whose harassed nerves were making her irritable. “I will call our financial account even, but if any of your workwomen can trim hats that you like as well as those that I trimmed, I trust you will give them the salary you offered me. Good-afternoon.”
Patty bowed politely, and then, with a more kindly bow and smile to Miss O’Flynn, she went through the draperies, through the front salesroom, and out at the front door. The milliner and her forewoman followed her with a dignified slowness, but reached the window in time to see Patty get into an elaborately-appointed motor-car which rolled rapidly away.
“She’s one of those society women who spy out what wages we pay,” said Madame Villard, with conviction.
“She’s not old enough for that,” returned Miss O’Flynn, “but she’s not looking for real work, either. I can’t make her out.”
“Well, we have three stunning hats, anyway. Put them in the window to-morrow. And you may as well put Paris labels inside; they have an air of the real thing.”
That evening Patty regaled her parents with a truthful account of her day.
“I’m ‘foiled again’!” she said, laughing. “But the whole performance was so funny I must tell you about it.”