“As to that,” answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative and gossipy, “we make more out of the black sheep than out of the white ones. They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two prices, but you see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop to worry about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They look and buy, and there's the end of it.”
“I understand,” remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. “It may be wicked to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have the sinners for customers than the saints.”
She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon her arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant, half-confidential way, said,
“You know everybody about here?”
“Pretty much.”
“The black sheep as well as the white?”
“As customers.”
“Of course; that's all I mean,” was returned. “I'd be sorry if you knew them in any other way—some of them, at least.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know a girl they call Pinky?”
“I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person is she?”
“A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a snaky look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather.”