get it," reckoned Di. "That's tearing off forty thousand in one night's entertainment, ain't it? Not one night, of course," she considered fairly. "There was preparation for last eve; and we aren't through. But if we rip away that Metten business from Rountree and if Jello keeps my case, when I give it back, Art Slengel sure can buy me another—if I don't want an automobile instead."
"What?" gasped Ellen.
Di inhaled and let the smoke out gently through her pretty, provocative nose. "Selling," she formulated sagely, "is sure woman's work, these days. Nights, I mean. Selling the big stuff, I mean; not the little stuff; and selling the big men. The bigger they are the more they do like a little personal attention.
"To think of the weeks and months I tossed away kidding the keys of a typewriter from 8.30 a. m. to 5.30 p. m.! What difference did I make at a typewriter? All the letters looked alike, except mine; they were worse. But I certainly made a lot of difference last night in Jello's lap."
