going on among the other clerks. One of the men, in search of the
missing mate to the shoe in his hand, came over to her, greeting
her carelessly. Then he stared.

"Well, what do you know about this!" he called out to the
others, and laughed coarsely, "Look, stop, listen! Little Sophy
Bright Eyes here has pulled down the shades."

Louie turned quickly. The immodest V of Sophy's gown was
filled with a black lace yoke that came up to the very lobes of her
little pink ears. She had got some scraps of lace from--Where do
they get those bits of rusty black? From some basement bargain
counter, perhaps, raked over during the lunch hour. There were
nine pieces in the front, and seven in the back. She had sat up
half the night putting them together so that when completed they
looked like one, if you didn't come too close. There is a certain
strain of Indian patience and ingenuity in women that no man has
ever been able to understand.

Louie looked up and saw. His eyes met Sophy's. In his there
crept a certain exultant gleam, as of one who had fought for
something great and won. Sophy saw the look. The shy questioning
in her eyes was replaced by a spark of defiance. She tossed her
head, and turned to the man who had called attention to her
costume.

"Who's loony now?" she jeered. "I always put in a yoke when
it gets along toward fall. My lungs is delicate. And anyway, I
see by the papers yesterday that collarless gowns is slightly
passay f'r winter."