"
Emma McChesney's lips opened as do those of one whose tongue's end
holds a quick and stinging retort. Then they closed again. She walked
over to the big window that faced the street. When she had stood there
a moment, silent, she swung around and came back to where T. A. Buck
stood, still wrapped in gloom.
"Maybe I don't take myself seriously. I'd have been dead ten years ago
if I had. But I do take my job seriously. Don't forget that for a
minute. You talk the way a man always talks when his pride is hurt."
"Pride! It isn't that."
"Oh, yes, it is. I didn't sell T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats on
the road for almost ten years without learning a little something
about men and business. When your father died, and I learned that he
had shown his appreciation of my work and loyalty by making me
secretary of this great company, I didn't think of it as a legacy--a
stroke of good fortune."
"No?"
"No. To me it was a sacred trust--something to be guarded, nursed,
cherished. And now you say we've run this concern into the ground.
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