Carolyn Wells

“ Hampton had walked away, with a determined though undefined intention of doing something desperate to that floor-walker. “Look here,” he said, “when I say a dress pattern, I don’t mean those foolish tissue paper things—I don’t mean a pattern to cut out by—I mean a dress pattern, enough stuff to make a dress for a woman—a woman short and fat and blond.”
“Oh, enough material for a dress! Why, my dear sir, we can sell you a dress pattern of any material in the house. What you want is the dry-goods counter.” ”

“ For you, understand, and not for the cook. She has no business to have a birthday in a well-regulated family; but if you want a cook’s present, that’s what you’ll get. What shall I buy?”
“Oh, that’s just it. I can’t think of a thing; I’ve tried and tried. Can’t you think of something?”
“Of course! Why, it’s too easy! There never was but one present for a cook since Eve kept house. It would be false to all tradition to offer her anything else.”
"What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Hampton, looking puzzled.
“Why, a dress pattern, to be sure. ”

“ All our patterns are right here. We keep all makes, all styles, and all sizes. Have you the number? You want a pattern for a street dress or a house dress? What size is the lady? How tall? How old? That is—I mean—is it your wife. or—”
“Or my grandmother!” broke in John Hampton. “I don’t want a pattern at all, if you'll kindly give me a chance to say so. That is, I want a dress pattern—not a pattern of a dress! ”