"...Well, but, my dear, it's the style--the line--you're paying for, not the material.""No, that hat doesn't do a thing for you.""I've got it.I had you in mind when I bought it.Now don't say you can't wear henna.Wait till you see it on."When she stood behind you as you sat, uncrowned and expectant before the mirror, she would poise the hat four inches above your head, holding it in the tips of her fingers, a precious, fragile thing.Your fascinated eyes were held by it, and your breath as well.Then down it descended, slowly, slowly.A quick pressure.
Her fingers firm against your temples.A little sigh of relieved suspense.
"That's wonderful on you!...You don't! Oh, my dear! But that's because you're not used to it.You know how you said, for years, you had to have a brim, and couldn't possibly wear a turban, with your nose, until I proved to you that if the head size was only big...Well, perhaps this needs just a lit-tle lift here.Ju-u-ust a nip.There! That does it."And that did it.Not that Sophy Decker ever tried to sell you a hat against your judgment, taste, or will.She was too wise a psychologist and too shrewd a businesswoman for that.She preferred that you go out of her shop hatless rather than with an unbecoming hat.But whether you bought or not you took with you out of Sophy Decker's shop somethingmore precious than any hatbox ever contained.Just to hear her admonishing a customer, her good-natured face all aglow:
"My dear, always put on your hat before you get into your dress.
I do.You can get your arms above your head, and set it right.I put on my hat and veil as soon's I get my hair combed."In your mind's eye you saw her, a stout, well-stayed figure in tight brassiere and scant slip, bare-armed and bare-bosomed, in smart hat and veil, attired as though for the street from the neck up and for the bedroom from the shoulders down.
The East End set bought Sophy Decker's hats because they were modish and expensive hats.But she managed, miraculously, to gain a large and lucrative following among the paper-mill girls and factory hands as well.You would have thought that any attempt to hold both these opposites would cause her to lose one or the other.Aunt Sophy said, frankly, that of the two, she would have preferred to lose her smart trade.
"The mill girls come in with their money in their hands, you might say.They get good wages and they want to spend them.I wouldn't try to sell them one of those little plain model hats.They wouldn't understand 'em or like them.And if I told them the price they'd think I was trying to cheat them.They want a hat with something good and solid on it.Their fathers wouldn't prefer caviar to pork roast, would they? It's the same idea."Her shopwindows reflected her business acumen.One was chastely, severely elegant, holding a single hat poised on a slender stick.
In the other were a dozen honest arrangements of velvet and satin and plumes.
At the spring opening she always displayed one of those little toques completely covered with violets.That violet-covered toque was a symbol.
"I don't expect 'em to buy it," Sophy Decker explained."But everybody feels there should be a hat like that at a spring opening.It's like a fruit centerpiece at a family dinner.Nobody ever eats it, but it has to be there."The two Baldwin children--Adele and Eugene--found Aunt Sophy'sshop a treasure trove.Adele, during her doll days, possessed such boxes of satin and velvet scraps, and bits of lace and ribbon and jet as to make her the envy of all her playmates.She used to crawl about the floor of the shop workroom and under the table and chairs like a little scavenger.
"What in the world do you do with all that truck, child?" asked Aunt Sophy."You must have barrels of it."Adele stuffed another wisp of tulle into the pocket of her pinafore."I keep it," she said.
When she was ten Adele had said to her mother, "Why do you always say `Poor Sophy'?""Because--Aunt Sophy's had so little in life.She never has married, and has always worked."Adele considered that."If you don't get married do they say you're poor?""Well--yes----"
"Then I'll get married," announced Adele.A small, dark, eerie child, skinny and rather foreign-looking.The boy, Eugene, had the beauty which should have been the girl's.Very tall, very blond, with the straight nose and wistful eyes of the Flora of twenty years ago."If only Adele could have had his looks," his mother used to say."They're wasted on a man.He doesn't need them, but a girl does.Adele will have to be well dressed and interesting.And that's such hard work."Flora said she worshiped her children.And she actually sometimes still coquetted heavily with her husband.At twenty she had been addicted to baby talk when endeavoring to coax something out of someone.Her admirers had found it irresistible.At forty it was awful.Her selfishness was colossal.She affected a semi-invalidism and for fifteen years had spent one day a week in bed.She took no exercise and a great deal of soda bicarbonate and tried to fight her fat with baths.Fifteen or twenty years had worked a startling change in the two sisters, Flora the beautiful and Sophy the plain.It was more than a mere physical change.It was a spiritual thing, though neither knew nor marked it.Each had taken on weight, the one, solidly, comfortably; the other, flabbily, unhealthily.With the encroaching fat, Flora's small, delicate featuresseemed, somehow, to disappear in her face, so that you saw it as a large white surface bearing indentations, ridges, and hollows like one of those enlarged photographs of the moon's surface as seen through a telescope.A self-centered face, and misleadingly placid.Aunt Sophy's large, plain features, plumply padded now, impressed you as indicating strength, courage, and a great human understanding.
