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young architectural mouths dropped open. Paul wondered fleetingly how long it would take him to burrow his way through the floor.
    "Hello, Claire? Claire, honey, can you leave right away? My uncle is getting restive."
     
    Claire Devine had no time to admire the Buyers' Lounge today. Ordinarily she loved to dawdle there. It had comfortable chairs, copies of Vogue and Woman's Wear Daily, pink plumbing and free Kleenex. It was a symbol. It had been Claire's privilege to frequent this Faubourg St. Germain of the garment business for only a fortnight and the magic had not quite worn off. But now there was no time to tarry. She could do just half to her face what she had planned to without keeping Paul waiting out on Fifth Avenue.
    With a practiced hand, Claire began to remove her make up at the dressing table.
    "Ahntcha gonna say howdy-do, doll?" It was Miss Golden, the buyer in Custom Hats, sitting stocking-footed in a soiled satin slipper chair.
    "Oh, Gert," Claire said swiftly, "I was in such a rush I didn't even see you. I've got to dash off for the weekend, darling." First names and little endearments were the order of the Buyers' Lounge. They showed that one belonged.
    "Boy friend?"
    "Mmm-hmm," Claire said guardedly. Vulgar and garrulous as she was, Gert Golden was the Queen Mother of the buyers at the shop—they never referred to it as a "store"; that implied pots and pans. Gert had a finger in every pie and even the society women who worked there "for a lark," knew the wisdom of keeping in Gert's good graces. Cross Gert and you were through, but play up to the old hag and she could be useful. She had total recall of her thirty years in trade and you couldn't name a single distinguished customer without getting a complete dossier from Miss Golden.
    As a matter of fact, Claire rather liked Gert Golden. She reminded Claire a little of Granny, who was a buyer at the Emporium in San Francisco; and even a little of Mom, who was a buyer at Carson, Pirie, Scott back in Chicago. They were all merchant princesses of the old school—ambitious women who had shaken dull husbands, put on black crepe dresses and fought their way to the top.
    Claire was proud of her heritage in merchandising. But she knew that she was already head and shoulders above Mom and Granny. Claire had risen from Senn High School to Better Blouses at Marshall Field's, to B. Altaian's, to Lord & Taylor in New York, and now here—just as high up Fifth Avenue as you could get without being in Central Park. And she'd done it all in seven years flat. She'd be only twenty-five next month and already a buyer! The sky was the limit.
    Miss Golden popped a Herbert Tareyton between her bright lips and rolled it wetly. She squinted at Claire through a short fringe of blackened lashes. "Gee, doll, you sure look pale with-outcha foundayshin. Whyntcha try a dahkah base fa summah-time? Make ya look healthiah. Say, I wondah how you'd look blonde?"
    "I wonder," Claire said, applying an invisible coat of eyeshadow. Really, Claire thought, these old-time buyers are all alike. Granny with her blue hair, Mom with her black hair, Gert with her yellow hair. All of them painted brown as Indians to the jawline; nails too red, lips too red, lids too blue. It was just as passé as calling customers "Modom."
    Mom and Granny and Gert had gone a long way, considering their disadvantages, but Claire was going higher. The trick about being a shopgirl was not being a shopgirl. Make up so you don't look made up. Leave your hair natural—or dye it to look more natural. Dress better than the customers. Speak better. Know more about the smart plays and restaurants and nightclubs. Don't toady to them and don't snub them. Don't go to them, let them come to you. Claire treated customers as though they were almost as good as she was. She greeted them with the cool indifference of a surgeon or a psychiatrist whose help they needed—a high priestess of high fashion who took dowdy women in hand and