On his way down from Vivian Court, the mining man’s attention was caught by the great corner show window at Sedgewick-Wilson’s, and instantly out of the display of handsome evening gowns his eyes singled a dancing frock of pink chiffon.  “She always looked pretty,” he told himself, “but when she wore pink—­my!” and he turned and found his way through the swinging doors.  A little later the elevator had left him at the second floor.  For a moment the mirrors bewildered him; they gave a sense of vastness, repeating the elegant apartment in every direction, and whichever way he glanced there was himself, seated on the edge of a chair, his square shoes set primly on the thick green carpet, his hat held stiffly over the crippled hand.  Then an imposing young woman sauntered towards him.  “Well,” she said severely, “what can I show you?”

Banks drew himself a little stiffer.  “A dress,” he said abruptly in his highest key, “ready-made and pink.”

“What size?”

“Why”—­the little man paused, and a blush that was nearer a shadow crossed his weather-worn face—­“let me see.  She’s five feet seven and a quarter, in her shoes, and I judge a couple of inches wider through the shoulders than you.”  His glance moved to another saleswoman, who came a step nearer and stood listening, frankly amused.  “You look more her figure,” he added.

“Takes a thirty-eight.”  The first saleswoman brought out a simple gown of pink veiling and laid it on the rack before Banks, and he leaned forward and took a fold between his thumb and forefinger, gravely feeling the texture.

“This is priced at twenty-five dollars,” she said.  “How does that suit?”

Banks drew himself erect.  “There’s one down-stairs in the front window I like better,” he said.

The woman looked him shrewdly over.  He had put his hat down, and her glance rested involuntarily on his maimed hand.  “That pink chiffon is a hundred and twenty-five,” she explained.

“I can stand it; the price doesn’t cut any figure, if it’s what I want.”  He paused, nodding a little aggressively and tapping the carpet with one square foot.  “The lady it’s for is a mighty good judge of cloth, and I want you to show me the best you’ve got.”

She glanced at the other saleswoman, but she had turned her back—­her shoulders shook—­and she hurried to bring out a duplicate of the pink chiffon, which she arranged carefully on the rack.  Bank’s face softened; he reached to touch it with a sort of caress.  “This is more like it,” he said; then, turning to the second girl, “but I can tell better if you’ll put it on.  You don’t seem very busy,” he added quickly, “and I’ll pay you your time.”

“Why, that’s all right,” she answered and came to pick up the gown.  “I’ll be glad to; that’s what I’m here for.”