Again Smetana, who had formerly occupied a desk in the bookkeeping department, where he had made out the bills, smiled. “Our Christian trade never was anything to brag about, Herr Habietnik; and there always was a catch to those of our customers who really were Christians. They were either the wives or the mistresses of Jews. Let me remind you of the beautiful Countess Wurmdorf, the one who, at the very end, ordered a masquerade costume from us for a million and a half. Very good; but who paid it? Her husband, perhaps? Nothing of the sort! It was the wealthy Eisler, of Eisler and Breisler! And Manoni of the Opera, who’s the daughter of an honest-to-goodness Christian washwoman, and who left a hundred million in cold cash with us every year? Why, the entire Hebrew community had to contribute there! Then there’s....” Herr Habietnik stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Nevertheless there were plenty of ladies who had no lovers and still bought quite a good deal. I know more about this for I was the head of the ladies’ tailoring department.” “Yes. But you see, Herr Habietnik, even when they weren’t Jewish it was the competition of the Jewish women that helped us. When the Jewesses wore good, stylish clothes the Christian society women did not want to lag behind.” “You may be right there,” the head admitted thoughtfully. “The other day I myself heard Frau Artander objecting to our prices, and saying, as she left without placing an order: ‘Oh, well--thank God we don’t need to dress up so much any more, or to take up every fashionable craze. I’ll simply have my old things made over.’” The memory made Herr Habietnik’s blood boil--he brought down his fist on the table. “See here, I didn’t call you in for a friendly chat, but for advice! That’s what you get your high salary for!” Smetana bowed. “I can give you an idea, Herr von Habietnik. People are going in for coarse woolens and other durable stuffs nowadays--as you saw yourself, there’s even a demand for cotton goods. What do you say to filling up a few show-windows with woolens, rough wool skirts, cotton and flannel underwear? And a nice poster to go with it, and a lot of advertisements announcing: Rough Woolens, Cotton, Muslin, and Flannel--the Latest Paris Fashion!” Seized with a hysterical fit of laughter, Herr Habietnik roared until the tears ran down his cheeks. “Flannels and woolens--the rage in Paris! See here, if Frau Ella Zwieback, who’s living in Brussels now, ever hears of this, she’ll think we’ve all gone crazy in Vienna! But all right--I’m sick of this business, and I get scared stiff when I walk through the empty house! Go ahead, make your wool displays! And don’t forget the Alpine hats and hobnailed shoes! As for the pastry shop, it’ll gradually be converted into a standing bar with hot frankfurters. It’s all the same to me, whether we smash this way or that!”