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card; by the time she looked up, my grip was tight enough to strangle a cat.
    “And your letter of reference?” she asked.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring one.”
    Miss Hapgood raised her thick eyebrows. “Why not?”
    “I practically grew up in a store. My father manages the Woolworth’s on Thirty-fourth Street, and before that, he managed the one up in Cold Spring. I’ve been working behind the counter since I can remember. You can be sure I know all about the dry goods business.”
    “How much were you paid?”
    “I wasn’t.”
    “So you don’t have any actual work experience.”
    “I’ve got lots of work experience; I just wasn’t paid for it.”
    She smiled with tight lips. “We’re looking for girls with paid experience.”
    I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. “Even though my father didn’t pay me, I had the same responsibilities as the other countergirls. We could telephone him,” I said, though he might tell her to send me straight home. “I’m sure my father would be happy to speak with you.”
    “That’s not necessary. We need to see a written reference from a previous employer showing you’re an experienced salesgirl.”
    “Oh, but I’m not here for a sales position. I’m here for the job as assistant buyer.”
    “Even more to the point. If you want to become an assistant buyer, you’ll have to start as a countergirl. How could we put you in charge of our salesgirls if you’ve never even worked?”
    I felt my cheeks get hot. “I’m sure I could learn anything I need to know in a flash.”
    “Then learn it. And come back. With a letter of reference.” She put my card on a pile. “Thank you for coming in.”
    I took my leave with all the dignity I could muster. This was the limit. To be dismissed so out of hand! Exiting past the other applicants, I strained to keep the tears from sneaking out until I’d made it through the green door. Tears! How mortifying. I refused to be so easily broken and wiped them off quickly. It wasn’t as though I needed the money. To think she didn’t see me as qualified for the lowly position of salesgirl!
    I found my way to the ladies’ lounge, a lair of femininity decorated with pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, magenta drapes, and plush pink carpeting. Women clustered in front of a brightly lit mirror while freshening up and redoing their hair; puffs and curls lay scattered on the counter. At least the other ladies hadn’t a hint of the humiliation I’d just suffered. After splashing some water on my face, I eked out a place in front of the glass so I could fix my sagging Psyche knot.
    The woman next to me powdered her face while telling her companion about an article in the morning paper. “They say Harry Thaw is getting his meals catered by the Astor House restaurant while he’s locked up in the Tombs! Can you believe it?”
    “Next thing you know, they’ll hire an orchestra for him.”
    People couldn’t get enough of the dreadful scandal surrounding Stanford White’s murder. I had no sympathy for the deranged Mr. Thaw, who’d shot the famous architect dead.
    “If they let me sit on that jury,” the woman next to me replied, “I’d put him away for good.”
    “It would be grand to see Evelyn Nesbit on the stand, if only to see what she’ll wear.”
    I left the lounge and took the moving staircase down. On the fourth floor, a heavenly scent lured me to investigate the gourmet food section, where a small crowd watched a young woman sautéing mushrooms in a chafing dish. “Chafing dish cookery,” she proclaimed, “is the ideal way to solve the problem of small kitchens in New York apartments.”
    Still smarting from rejection, I had no intention of buying a chafing dish, though it was a clever idea. The Mansfield apartments didn’t have kitchens—a detail my aunt found unbelievable. Father would be delighted if I made him dinner now and then.
    When the mushrooms finished cooking in the buttery sauce, the young woman