T. A. Buck seated himself as one who is weary, body and mind.
“Got another new one?”
Emma McChesney regarded him a moment thoughtfully. Then she stepped to the tall show-case, pushed back the sliding glass door, and pointed to the rows of brilliant-hued petticoats that hung close-packed within.
“Look at 'em!” she commanded, disgust in her voice. “Look at 'em!”
T. A. Buck raised heavy, lack-luster eyes and looked. What he saw did not seem to interest him. Emma McChesney drew from the rack a skirt of king's blue satin messaline and held it at arm's length.
“And they call that thing a petticoat! Why, fifteen years ago the material in this skirt wouldn't have made even a fair-sized sleeve.”
T. A. Buck regarded the petticoat moodily. “I don't see how they get around in the darned things. I honestly don't see how they wear 'em.”
“That's just it. They don't wear 'em. There you have the root of the whole trouble.”
“Oh, nonsense!” disputed T. A. “They certainly wear something—some sort of an—”
“I tell you they don't. Here. Listen. Three years ago our taffeta skirts ran from thirty-six to thirty-eight yards to the dozen. We paid from ninety cents to one dollar five a yard. Now our skirts run from twenty-five to twenty-eight yards to the dozen. The silk costs us from fifty to sixty cents a yard. Silk skirts used to be a luxury. Now they're not even a necessity.”