There， were 3，000 girls in the Biggest Store. Masiewas one of them. She was eighteen and a saleslady in thegents’ gloves. Here she became versed in two varieties ofhuman beings—the kind of gents who buy their gloves indepartment stores and the kind of women who buy glovesfor unfortunate gents. Besides this wide knowledge of thehuman species， Masie had acquired other information. Shehad listened to the promulgated wisdom of the 2，999 othergirls and had stored it in a brain that was as secretive andwary as that of a Maltese cat. Perhaps nature， foreseeingthat she would lack wise counsellors， had mingled thesaving ingredient of shrewdness along with her beauty， asshe has endowed the silver fox of the priceless fur abovethe other animals with cunning.
For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted blonde，with the calm poise of a lady who cooks butter cakes ina window. She stood behind her counter in the BiggestStore； and as you closed your hand over the tape-linefor your glove measure you thought of Hebe； and asyou looked again you wondered how she had come byMinerva’s eyes.
When the floorwalker was not looking Masie chewedtutti frutti； when he was looking she gazed up as if at theclouds and smiled wistfully.
That is the shopgirl smile， and I enjoin you to shun itunless you are well fortified with callosity of the heart，caramels and a congeniality for the capers of Cupid. Thissmile belonged to Masie’s recreation hours and not tothe store； but the floorwalker must have his own. He isthe Shylock of the stores. When he comes nosing aroundthe bridge of his nose is a toll-bridge. It is goo-goo eyesor “git” when he looks toward a pretty girl. Of course notall floorwalkers are thus. Only a few days ago the papersprinted news of one over eighty years of age.
One day Irving Carter， painter， millionaire， traveller，poet， automobilist， happened to enter the Biggest Store. Itis due to him to add that his visit was not voluntary. Filialduty took him by the collar and dragged him inside， whilehis mother philandered among the bronze and terra-cottastatuettes.
Carter strolled across to the glove counter in order toshoot a few minutes on the wing. His need for gloves wasgenuine； he had forgotten to bring a pair with him. But hisaction hardly calls for apology， because he had never heardof glove-counter flirtations.
As he neared the vicinity of his fate he hesitated， suddenlyconscious of this unknown phase of Cupid’s less worthyprofession.
Three or four cheap fellows， sonorously garbed， wereleaning over the counters， wrestling with the mediatorialhand-coverings， while giggling girls played vivacious secondsto their lead upon the strident string of coquetry. Carterwould have retreated， but he had gone too far. Masieconfronted him behind her counter with a questioninglook in eyes as coldly， beautifully， warmly blue as the glint ofsummer sunshine on an iceberg drifting in Southern seas.
And then Irving Carter， painter， millionaire， etc.， felta warm flush rise to his aristocratically pale face. Butnot from diffidence. The blush was intellectual in origin.
He knew in a moment that he stood in the ranks of theready-made youths who wooed the giggling girls at othercounters. Himself leaned against the oaken trysting placeof a cockney Cupid with a desire in his heart for the favorof a glove salesgirl. He was no more than Bill and Jack andMickey. And then he felt a sudden tolerance for them， andan elating， courageous contempt for the conventions uponwhich he had fed， and an unhesitating determination tohave this perfect creature for his own.
When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carterlingered for a moment. The dimples at the corners ofMasie’s damask mouth deepened. All gentlemen whobought gloves lingered in just that way. She curved an arm，showing like Psyche’s through her shirt-waist sleeve， andrested an elbow upon the show-case edge.
Carter had never before encountered a situation ofwhich he had not been perfect master. But now he stoodfar more awkward than Bill or Jack or Mickey. He had nochance of meeting this beautiful girl socially. His mindstruggled to recall the nature and habits of shopgirls as hehad read or heard of them. Somehow he had received theidea that they sometimes did not insist too strictly uponthe regular channels of introduction. His heart beat loudlyat the thought of proposing an unconventional meetingwith this lovely and virginal being. But the tumult in hisheart gave him courage.
After a few friendly and well-received remarks on generalsubjects， he laid his card by her hand on the counter.
“Will you please pardon me，” he said， “if I seem toobold； but I earnestly hope you will allow me the pleasureof seeing you again. There is my name； I assure you thatit is with the greatest respect that I ask the favor ofbecoming one of your fr—acquaintances. May I not hopefor the privilege？”
Masie knew men—especially men who buy gloves.
Without hesitation she looked him frankly and smilinglyin the eyes， and said：
“Sure. I guess you’re all right. I don’t usually go out withstrange gentlemen， though. It ain’t quite ladylike. Whenshould you want to see me again？”
“As soon as I may，” said Carter. “If you would allow meto call at your home， I—”
Masie laughed musically. “Oh， gee， no！” she said，emphatically. “If you could see our flat once！ There’s fiveof us in three rooms. I’d just like to see ma’s face if I wasto bring a gentleman friend there！”
“Anywhere， then，” said the enamored Carter， “that willbe convenient to you.”
“Say，” suggested Masie， with a bright-idea look in herpeach-blow face； “I guess Thursday night will about suitme. Suppose you come to the corner of Eighth Avenueand Forty-eighth Street at 7：30. I live right near the corner.
