"Send me by return mail, please, five yards of percaline to line this silk."
"This silk" was an exqusite shade of pale green.
I rushed to the nearest store—the green silk was for a bridesmaid's frock, and the wedding day at hand—and I offered the bit of shimmery silk to a clerk.
"Five yards of percaline to match that, please."
"We ain't got any percaline like that," she said, listlessly dropping my sample. My glance traveled up and down the shelving, and lighted on a piece of palest green lining.
"What is that third bolt from the top?"
"That ain't percaline—it's shimmer satin."
"Well, I'd like to see it."
"It costs two cents more a yard than percaline," replied the clerk, not offering to take down the bolt, "and it ain't so heavy."
"I want to see it," I replied firmly, and I got it, not because of the clerk, but in spite of her.
Now, if she had been sincere in her work, if she had wanted to pay her employer for training her to earn her own living, she would have said to me:
"We have no percaline that shade, but I can give you a much better and softer lining at only a few cents more a yard."
But she was just hoping that I would not buy.
