"But I must know," said Hamilton, in despair. "See for yourself,—here it says that every factory must state the total cost of all material used during the year and the value of the products."
"Factory!" the milliner jumped to her feet. "What you say—a factory! Zis establishment a factory! And me, one of ze designers of ze great Maison Chic in Paris! Zis is insult!"
For a moment Hamilton was amazed at the tempest he had so suddenly evoked; then he tried to pacify the woman.
"That's just a general word," he said, "and it is used for every place where things are made."
"No, no, no," she cried, "I know bezzer zan zat. A factory has chimney, high, high, and smoke, an' nasty smells, an' machines. I have seen zem!"
"That's one kind of factory," answered the boy, "but it is only one kind. But if you like we won't use the word at all."
This time, however, Hamilton's persuasions were of no avail. The milliner had taken offense at the word "factory," and not another word could the boy get out of her on any subject; the deadlock had become absolute when the door opened and the maid showed in a young girl, evidently a customer. The proprietress immediately greeted her in voluble French, recounting as nearly as Hamilton could judge from her gestures her sorrows and trials at the boy's hands.
As soon as there was a lull, Hamilton said to the newcomer:
"I beg your pardon, but since you seem to know French, would you mind explaining to Madame what the census is? She seems to think I am a police spy, or something."
"Oh, the census!" the girl exclaimed. "I could not make out what it was all about. I thought it must be some question of taxes."