One day I dropped in at Macy's. I wished to make some trifling purchase. Possibly I could have bought to equal advantage elsewhere, but I was curious to see this great emporium. Years before, I had heard of it in my country home, and even then I knew just where it was located, at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue.
Curious as I had been about the place, I had actually spent three months in New York and had not visited it. It was something of a shock to me when I first learned there was no Macy, that the original proprietor had vanished from the stage and left his famous shop in charge of men of alien race and name. Macy had become nominis umbra—the shadow of a name. Yet the name had been wisely retained. Under no other name could the great store have retained its ancient and well-earned popularity.
I made my purchase—it was trifling and did not materially swell the day's receipts—and began to walk slowly about the store, taking a leisurely survey of the infinite variety of goods which it offered to the prospective purchaser.
As I was making my leisurely round, all at once I heard my name called in a low but distinct tone.
"Dr. Fenwick!"
I turned quickly, and behind the handkerchief counter I saw the young woman from Macy's, whose pleasant face I had seen so often at our table.
She nodded and smiled, and I instantly went up to the counter.
I was sensible that I must not take up the time of one of the salesladies—I believe that the genteel designation of this class—without some pretense of business, so, after greeting Ruth Canby, I said:
"You may show me some of your handkerchiefs, please."
"Do you wish something nice?" she asked.