By O. Henry
There， were 3，000 girls in the Biggest Store. Masie was oneof them. She was eighteen and a saleslady in the gents’ gloves.
Here she became versed in two varieties of human beings—thekind of gents who buy their gloves in department stores and thekind of women who buy gloves for unfortunate gents. Besidesthis wide knowledge of the human species， Masie had acquiredother information. She had listened to the promulgated wisdomof the 2，999 other girls and had stored it in a brain that wasas secretive and wary as that of a Maltese cat. Perhaps nature，foreseeing that she would lack wise counsellors， had mingledthe saving ingredient of shrewdness along with her beauty， asshe has endowed the silver fox of the priceless fur above theother animals with cunning.
For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted blonde， withthe calm poise of a lady who cooks butter cakes in a window.
She stood behind her counter in the Biggest Store； and as youclosed your hand over the tape-line for your glove measureyou thought of Hebe； and as you looked again you wonderedhow she had come by Minerva’s eyes.
When the floorwalker was not looking Masie chewed tuttifrutti； when he was looking she gazed up as if at the cloudsand smiled wistfully.
That is the shopgirl smile， and I enjoin you to shun it unlessyou are well fortified with callosity of the heart， caramels anda congeniality for the capers of Cupid. This smile belonged toMasie’s recreation hours and not to the store； but the floorwalkermust have his own. He is the Shylock of the stores. When hecomes nosing around the bridge of his nose is a toll-bridge. Itis goo-goo eyes or “git” when he looks toward a pretty girl. Ofcourse not all floorwalkers are thus. Only a few days ago thepapers printed news of one over eighty years of age.
One day Irving Carter， painter， millionaire， traveller， poet，automobilist， happened to enter the Biggest Store. It is dueto him to add that his visit was not voluntary. Filial duty tookhim by the collar and dragged him inside， while his motherphilandered among the bronze and terra-cotta statuettes.
Carter strolled across to the glove counter in order to shoota few minutes on the wing. His need for gloves was genuine；he had forgotten to bring a pair with him. But his action hardlycalls for apology， because he had never heard of glove-counterflirtations.
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 mediatorial handcoverings，while giggling girls played vivacious seconds totheir lead upon the strident string of coquetry. Carter wouldhave retreated， but he had gone too far. Masie confronted himbehind her counter with a questioning look in eyes as coldly，beautifully， warmly blue as the glint of summer sunshine on aniceberg drifting in Southern seas.
And then Irving Carter， painter， millionaire， etc.， felt awarm flush rise to his aristocratically pale face. But not fromdiffidence. The blush was intellectual in origin. He knew in amoment that he stood in the ranks of the ready-made youthswho wooed the giggling girls at other counters. Himself leanedagainst the oaken trysting place of a cockney Cupid with adesire in his heart for the favor of a glove salesgirl. He was nomore than Bill and Jack and Mickey. And then he felt a suddentolerance for them， and an elating， courageous contempt forthe conventions upon which he had fed， and an unhesitatingdetermination to have this perfect creature for his own.
When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carter lingeredfor a moment. The dimples at the corners of Masie’s damaskmouth deepened. All gentlemen who bought gloves lingeredin just that way. She curved an arm， showing like Psyche’sthrough her shirt-waist sleeve， and rested an elbow upon theshow-case edge.
Carter had never before encountered a situation of whichhe had not been perfect master. But now he stood far moreawkward than Bill or Jack or Mickey. He had no chance ofmeeting this beautiful girl socially. His mind struggled to recallthe nature and habits of shopgirls as he had read or heard ofthem. Somehow he had received the idea that they sometimesdid not insist too strictly upon the regular channels ofintroduction. His heart beat loudly at the thought of proposingan unconventional meeting with this lovely and virginal being.
But the tumult in his heart 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 too bold；but I earnestly hope you will allow me the pleasure of seeingyou again. There is my name； I assure you that it is with thegreatest respect that I ask the favor of becoming one of yourfr—acquaintances. May I not hope for the privilege？”
Masie knew men—especially men who buy gloves. Withouthesitation she looked him frankly and smilingly in 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. When shouldyou want to see me again？”
“As soon as I may，” said Carter. “If you would allow me tocall at your home， I—”
Masie laughed musically. “Oh， gee， no！” she said， emphatically.
“If you could see our flat once！ There’s five of us in three rooms.
I’d just like to see ma’s face if I was to bring a gentlemanfriend there！”
“Anywhere， then，” said the enamored Carter， “that will beconvenient to you.”
“Say，” suggested Masie， with a bright-idea look in herpeach-blow face； “I guess Thursday night will about suit me.