“No, we ain’t got it,” Maida returned, not even deigning to glance at the wisp of yarn he proffered. “It’s only pro-Germans would keep pink wool these days,” she informed him. After which she returned to her haughty mastication, staring away out of the window over his head.
It was here that Julie abruptly laid down the hat she had been displaying and swept forward. She was animated by the same rage that had assailed her before. As she passed Maida she glared at her. “Show Miss Jenkins that sport hat,” she commanded; and Maida with a startled and indignant toss of her blond puffs melted away to the obscurity of the hat counter.
Julie reached the open door just as Mr. Bixby was starting out of it.
“I’m mighty sorry I haven’t got what you want, Mr. Bixby,” she said. “I hope you’ll call again.”
At her words he turned, and there was a sudden leap of surprise, of recognition, and of release in his eyes. For an instant they stood and looked at one another, the storm-tossed personalities of each finding a harbor and refuge in the being of the other. He spoke first. “I—I didn’t know,” he stumbled. “Is this your shop?”
She nodded. “Yes, I live here.”
But now she knew that Maida was turning to ask her something about the hat she held, and she hastily snatched up the momentarily dropped mantle of conventionality.
“I’m mighty sorry we haven’t any pink wool, Mr. Bixby,” she repeated, although she was aware that Maida was regarding her with outraged contempt.
He replied with a sudden surprising twist of whimsicality, an unexpected twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Oh, well,” he appealed, “ain’t it just like me to ask for pink wool a war year? Ain’t it just the ornary kind of thing I would do?”