The clerk told her that Hutchinson and Monroe had arrived that afternoon. She asked him to tell them that she would see them in the parlor at nine o’clock. There would be some slight advantage in making them come to her.
She was sitting in the small, stuffy room, her eyes fixed on a newspaper, when they came in. She felt hard, like a machine of steel, when she rose smiling to meet them.
Hutchinson was a tall, angular man, who moved in an easygoing way as if his body had nothing to do with the loose-fitting, gray clothes he wore. His eyes were frank, with a humorous expression in them, but though his face was lean there were deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, and when he smiled, which he did easily, two more deep lines appeared in his cheeks.
Monroe was older, shorter, and stout. There was a smooth suavity in the effect of his neat, dapper person, his heavy gold watch-chain, his eyeglasses. He removed the glasses at intervals, as if from habit, wiping them with a silk handkerchief, and at such moments his blandly paternal manner was accentuated. His eyes were set too close to the thin bridge of a nose that grew heavy at the tip, but his gray hair, the kindly patronage of his smile, and his soft, heavy voice were impressive.
Helen perceived that both of these men were good salesmen, and that their working together made a happy combination of opposite abilities. She saw herself opposing them, an inexperienced girl, and felt that the odds were overwhelmingly against her. But her determination to fight was not lessened.
Upright on a hard red davenport, she argued. The territory was hers. She had come into it first. She had developed it. She conceded their right to work there, but not the justice of their demanding part of the commissions she earned. The stale little room, filled with smells of heat-blistered varnish and dusty plush, became a battleground, and the high back of the davenport was a wall against which she stood at bay, confronting these men who had come to rob her.
But she was a woman. They did not let her forget it. They asked her permission to smoke, but not her consent to their business arrangements. They smiled at her arguments. After all, she was of the sex that must be humored. “My dear Mrs. Kennedy,” said Monroe, gallantly. “Do let us be—ah—reasonable.” Their courtesy was perfect. They would let her talk, since it pleased her to do so. They would pick up her handkerchief when it slid from her lap. If it was her whim to work in the oil fields they would even indulge her in it. But she struck rock when she spoke of commissions. They would take two and a half percent from any sales she made.
It bored Hutchinson to point out the situation to her, but he did it, courteously. The firm had given them the territory. They were experienced salesmen. Naturally, Clark would not leave the territory in the hands of a young saleswoman, however charming personally. This was business, he gently explained. They would take two and a half percent.
But she was a woman, and a charming one. Their tone implied that some slight sentimentality existed even in business. On sales they made from the leads she gave them, they would be generous. They would give her two and a half percent on those.
At this there was an interval when she sat smiling, speechless with rage. But she saw that the situation was hopeless. And every one of those names on her lists was a potential sale that would have paid her twelve and a half percent. Anger surged up in her, almost beyond her control. However, there was no value in fighting when she was beaten.
They parted on the best of terms; she yielded every point; she would give them the leads in the morning. She left them satisfied, thinking that women, while annoying, were not hard to handle.
In her room she stood shaken by her anger, by resentment and disgust. “Oh, beastly, beastly!” she said through clenched teeth. Striking her hand furiously against the edge of the dresser, she felt a physical pain that was a relief. She was able even to smile, ironically and wearily. This was the game she had to play, was it? Well—she had to play it.
She sat down and from her notebook copied a list of names and addresses. She chose only those of men to whom she had talked until convinced they were not land-buyers. In the morning she met Hutchinson in the lobby and gave him the list. She also insisted on a written agreement promising her two and a half percent commission on sales made to any of those men. Hutchinson gave it to her in patronizing good-humor.
Her buggy was waiting as usual in the shade of the hotel building. She felt grim satisfaction while she climbed into it and drove away, toward the Limited lease. Hutchinson and Monroe would work industriously for some time before they perceived her duplicity, and she did not care for their opinion when they did discover it. Her own conscience was harder to handle, but she reflected that she would have to revise her standards of honesty. “My dear Mrs. Kennedy—ah—really—this is business.” She hoped viciously that Monroe would see that she had quite understood his words. She made another good sale before they stopped working on the worthless leads. Their attitude toward her changed abruptly.
“You certainly put one over on us,” Hutchinson said without malice, and from that time they regarded her more as an equal than as a woman.
She was surprised to discover the bitterness developing in her.
Often in the evenings she walked in the quiet streets of little houses. Women were watering the lawns. A cool, sweet odor rose from refreshened grass and clumps of
