Yes, she would probably have received him into the store to please John Ogden, but she would never have taken any notice of him. The clerks in the big establishment held just the same place in her consideration as the lights, or the modern fixtures for carrying cash.
She entered the store and was met by a deferential floorwalker.
“How do, Mr. Ramsay. Where are the men’s dressing-gowns or bathrobes or smoking-jackets, or whatever you call ’em?”
“Why, that’s quite flattering, Miss Frink. I didn’t know that you trusted the manager to plan a department out of your knowledge.”
“That is because you don’t know me, then. I make certain that a person is competent, and after that I don’t tie any strings to him; but this is the first time in my life I ever bought anything for a man. I hope you’ve got something decent.”
“Now, look here, Miss Frink”—they were walking toward the back of the store, and every unoccupied clerk was casting furtive glances at the eagle-eyed proprietor—“that’s heresy, you know. New York might come over here and take a few lessons from our stock.”
Miss Frink’s lips twitched. It was her usual manner of smiling.
“Glad to hear it. Now, prove it.”
They reached the section desired, and Mr. Ramsay nodded to a blonde girl busy with her cash book.
“Dressing-gowns, Miss Duane”—then he bowed and moved away.