As the door closed behind his father Max aimed a kick at the old-fashioned walnut desk and the old-fashioned Windsor chair; and then, lighting a cigarette, he walked hurriedly to the cutting room.
"Lester," he said to his younger brother, who was poring over a book of sample swatches, "what do you think now?"
"Huh?" Lester grunted.
"The old man says we shouldn't make up them 1040's in nothing but black, navy, brown, and smoke!"
Lester closed the book of sample swatches and sat down suddenly.
"Wouldn't that make you sick?" he said in tones of profound disgust. "I tell you what it is, Max, if it wouldn't be that the old man can't run the business forever, I'd quit right now. We've got a killing in sight and he Jonahs the whole thing."
"I told you what it would be," Max said. "I seen Falkstatter in Sarahcuse last week; and so sure as I'm standing here, Lester, I could sold that feller a two-thousand dollar order if it wouldn't be for the old man's back-number ideas. Didn't have a single pastel shade in my trunks!"
"Where is he now?" Lester asked.
"Gone to lunch," Max replied.
Lester took up the sample swatches again and his eyes rested lovingly on a delicate shade of pink.