"This! And you a manufacturer of skirts!"
"What's the matter with the supply of new dresses? Isn't there enough to go round?"
"Enough! I've never had so many new gowns in my life. The trouble is that I shan't feel at home in them until I've had 'em all dry-cleaned at least once."
During the second month, there came a sudden, sharp change in skirt modes. For four years women had been mincing along in garments so absurdly narrow that each step was a thing to be considered, each curbing or car-step demanding careful negotiation. Now, Fashion, in her freakiest mood, commanded a bewildering width of skirt that was just one remove from the flaring hoops of Civil War days. Emma knew what that meant for the Featherloom workrooms and selling staff. New designs, new models, a shift in prices, a boom for petticoats, for four years a garment despised.
A hundred questions were on the tip of Emma's tongue; a hundred suggestions flashed into her keen mind; there occurred to her a wonderful design for a new model which should be full and flaring without being bulky and uncomfortable as were the wide petticoats of the old days.
But a bargain was a bargain. Still, Emma Buck was as human as Emma McChesney had been. She could not resist a timid,
"T. A., are you—that is—I was just wondering—you're making 'em wide, I suppose, for the spring trade."
A queer look flashed into T. A. Buck's eyes—a relieved look that was as quickly replaced by an expression both baffled and anxious.
"Why—a—mmmm—yes—oh, yes, we're making 'em up wide, but——"
"But what?" Emma leaned forward, tense.