Emma McChesney Co | Page 8

with his family, occupied chairs near hers. His name had struck her
with the sound of familiarity when she read it on the passenger list. She
had asked the deck-steward to point out the name's owner. "Pages," she
repeated to herself, worriedly, "Pages? P----" Suddenly she knew.
Pages y Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop--a shop
finer than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom
instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there,
seething.
That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she had
bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of the
Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of one of those
dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men whose likeness
graces the cover of a box of your favorite cigars.

General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with a
revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like most of
the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora Pages, very fat,
very indolent, very blank, much given to pink satin and diamonds at
dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered, overfrizzed, marvelously
gowned, with overplumpness just a few years away, sat quietly by
Senora Pages' side, but her darting, flashing, restless eyes were never
still. The son (Emma heard them call him Pepe) was barely eighteen,
she thought, but quite a man of the world, with his cigarettes, his drinks,
his bold eyes. She looked at his sallow, pimpled skin, his lean, brown
hands, his lack-luster eyes, and she thought of Jock and was happy.
Mrs. McChesney knew that she might visit the magnificent Buenos
Aires shop of Pages y Hernandez day after day for months without ever
obtaining a glimpse of either Pages or Hernandez. And here was Senor
Pages, so near that she could reach out and touch him from her deck
chair. Here was opportunity! A caller who had never been obliged to
knock twice at Emma McChesney's door.
Her methods were so simple that she herself smiled at them. She
donned her choicest suit of white serge that she had been saving for
shore wear. Its skirt had been cut by the very newest trick. Its coat was
the kind to make you go home and get out your own white serge and
gaze at it with loathing. Senorita Pages' eyes leaped to that suit as iron
leaps to the magnet. Emma McChesney, passing her deck chair,
detached the eyes with a neat smile. Why hadn't she spent six months
neglecting Skirts for Spanish? she asked herself, groaning. As she
approached her own deck chair again she risked a bright, "Good
morning." Her heart bounded, stood still, bounded again, as from the
lips of the assembled Pages there issued a combined, courteous,
perfectly good American, "Good morning!"
"You speak English!" Emma McChesney's tone expressed flattery and
surprise.
Pages pere made answer.
"Ah, yes, it is necessary. There are many English in Argentina."
A sigh--a fluttering, tremulous sigh of perfect peace and
happiness--welled up from Emma McChesney's heart and escaped
through her smiling lips.
By noon, Senorita Pages had tried on the fascinating coat and secured

the address of its builder. By afternoon, Emma McChesney was
showing the newest embroidery stitch to the slow but docile Senora
Pages. Next morning she was playing shuffleboard with the elegant,
indolent Pepe, and talking North American football and baseball to him.
She had not been Jock McChesney's mother all those years for nothing.
She could discuss sports with the best of them. Young Pages was
avidly interested. Outdoor sports had become the recent fashion among
the rich young Argentines.
The problem of papa Pages was not so easy. Emma McChesney
approached her subject warily, skirting the bypaths of politics, war,
climate, customs--to business. Business!
"But a lady as charming as you can understand nothing of business,"
said Senor Pages. "Business is for your militant sisters."
"But we American women do understand business. Many--many
charming American women are in business."
Senor Pages turned his fine eyes upon her. She had talked most
interestingly, this pretty American woman.
"Perhaps--but pardon me if I think not. A woman cannot be really
charming and also capable in business."
Emma McChesney dimpled becomingly.
"But I know a woman who is as--well, as charming as you say I am.
Still, she is known as a capable, successful business woman. She'll be
in Buenos Aires when I am."
Senor Pages shook an unbelieving head. Emma McChesney leaned
forward.
"Will you let me bring her in to meet you, just to prove my point?"
"She must be as charming as you are." His Argentine betting
proclivities rose. "Here; we shall make a wager!" He took a card from
his pocket, scribbled on it, handed it to Emma McChesney. "You will
please present that to my secretary, who