The saleswoman listlessly unrolled a yard or two from another bolt and held it up.
"Is it for yourself, madam? Or for the other young lady?"
"It's for my sister. Let me hold this against your hair, Alma."
"It's not nearly so nice as the other, of course," observed Alma, in a casual tone. "It's awfully stiff, and the color's sort of washed out. I really think——"
"Oh, of course, this paler shade is not nearly so effective at night," agreed the saleswoman, pouncing keenly upon her prey. "See how beautifully this deeper color brings out the gold in the young lady's hair. Would you like to take it to the mirror, miss?"
"Oh, don't, Alma!" begged Nancy, in comical despair. "Of course there isn't any comparison." She felt herself weakening. "I—I suppose this would really wear better too."
"Of course it would," said Alma, quickly. "That other stuff is so stiff it would split in no time."
Five times five-ninety-eight—thirty dollars. Nancy wrinkled her forehead, but she knew that she had succumbed even before she announced her surrender. The saleswoman, watching her, lynx-eyed, smiled. Alma preened herself in front of the long mirror, frankly admiring herself, with the soft, silken stuff draped around her shoulders.
"All right," said Nancy. "Give me five yards."
"Charged?" purred the saleswoman. But Nancy had no mind to have the gray ghost of her extravagance revisit her on the first of the month.