Worse yet, Debby began to attitudinize, to learn the comfort of poses. She must be forever holding pretty things forward. She took care of her hands, polished her nails. Now and then she must drape a piece of silk across her shoulder and dispose her rigid frame into curves. She began to talk of "lines" to cold-cream her complexion. The mental change in her was no less thorough. Activity was a tonic. Her patience was compelled to school itself. Prosperity lay in unfaltering courtesy, untarnished cheer. Cynicism does not sell goods. All day long she was praising things. Enthusiasm became her instinct. Few men swam into her ken, but in learning to satisfy the exactions of women she built up tact. She had long since omitted malekind from her life and her plan of life. She was content. Women liked her; women lingered to talk with her; they asked her help in their vital struggle for beauty. It was enough. CHAPTER VI One morning, as she was making ready to go to the store, and taking ready to go to the store, and taking much time at the process, she observed at her forehead a white hair. It startled her, frightened her for a moment; then she laughed. "Why, I’m growing old!" What use had she for youth? It had never been kind to her. All the loss of it meant was that it might harm her a little at the store. She plucked out the white thread and forgot it–nearly. Another day there was another white hair. She removed that, too. Then came another, and others, swiftly, till she was afraid to take any more away. At last there was a whole gray lock. She tucked it in and pinned it beneath the nondescript mass of her coiffure. It would have terrified her more if she had not been so busy. She chattered and proffered her wares all day long. Hunger became one of her most sincere emotions. Fatigue wore her out but strengthened her, sweetened her sleep, kept dreams away. When she woke she must hurry, hurry to the store. The old stupidity of her life had given way to an eternal hurry. And now the white hairs were hurrying, too, like the snowflakes that suddenly fill the air. But with this snow came the quickening of pulse and glistening of eyes, the reddening of cheeks that the snow brings. The white fell about her hair as if she stood bareheaded in a snow-storm. There was a kind of benediction in it. She felt that it softened something about her face, as the snow softens old rubbish-heaps and dreary yards and bleak patches. People began to say, "How well you look, Debby!" They began to dignify her as "Deborah" or "Miss Larrabee." Her old contemners came to her counter with a new meekness. Age was making it harder and harder for them to keep the pace. Bright colors did not become them any longer. Their petals were falling from them, the velvet was turning to plush, and the plush losing its nap, rusting, sagging, wearing through. The years, like moths, were gnawing, gnawing.