The Conflict [22]
opened. ``Why not?'' she said.
Jane cast about for a way to explain what seemed to her a self-evident truth. ``I mean--privacy,'' she said. ``For instance, if you were in love, you'd not want everybody to know about it?''
``Yes, indeed,'' declared Selma. ``I'd be tremendously proud of it. It must be wonderful to be in love.''
In one of those curious twists of feminine nature, Miss Hastings suddenly felt the glow of a strong, unreserved liking for this strange, candid girl.
Selma went on: ``But I'm afraid I never shall be. I get no time to think about myself. From rising till bed time my work pushes at me.'' She glanced uneasily at her desk, apologetically at Miss Hastings. ``I ought to be writing this minute. The strike is occupying Victor, and I'm helping out with his work.''
``I'm interrupting,'' said Jane. ``I'll go.'' She put out her hand with her best, her sweetest smile. ``We're going to be friends--aren't we?''
Selma clasped her hand heartily and said: ``We ARE friends. I like everybody. There's always something to like in everyone--and the bad part isn't their fault. But it isn't often that I like anyone so much as I do you. You are so direct and honest--quite different from the other women of your class that I've met.''
Jane felt unaccountably grateful and humble. ``I'm afraid you're too generous. I guess you're not a very good judge of people,'' she said.
``So Victor--Victor Dorn--says,'' laughed Selma. ``He says I'm too confiding. Well--why not? And really, he trusts everybody, too--except with the cause. Then he's--he's''--she glanced from face to face of the four pictures--``he's like those men.''
Jane's glance followed Selma's. She said: ``Yes--I should imagine so--from what I've heard.'' She startled, flushed, hid behind a somewhat constrained manner. ``Will you come up to my house to lunch?''
``If I can find time,'' said Selma. ``But I'd rather come and take you for a walk. I have to walk two hours every day. It's the only thing that'll keep my head clear.''
``When will you come?--to-morrow?''
``Is nine o'clock too early?''
Jane reflected that her father left for business at half-past eight. ``Nine to-morrow,'' she said. ``Good- by again.''
As she was mounting her horse, she saw ``the Cossack girl,'' as she was calling her, writing away at the window hardly three feet above the level of Jane's head when she was mounted, so low was the first story of the battered old frame house. But Selma did not see her; she was all intent upon the writing. ``She's forgotten me already,'' thought Jane with a pang of jealous vanity. She added: ``But SHE has SOMETHING to think about-- she and Victor Dorn.''
She was so preoccupied that she rode away with only an absent thank you for the small boy, in an older and much larger and wider brother's cast-off shirt, suspenders and trousers. At the corner of the avenue she remembered and turned her horse. There stood the boy gazing after her with a hypnotic intensity that made her smile. She rode back fumbling in her pockets. ``I beg your pardon,'' said she to the boy. Then she called up to Selma Gordon:
``Miss Gordon--please--will you lend me a quarter until to-morrow?''
Selma looked up, stared dazedly at her, smiled absently at Miss Hastings--and Miss Hastings had the strongest confirmation of her suspicion that Selma had forgotten her and her visit the instant she vanished from the threshold of the office. Said Selma: ``A quarter?--oh, yes--certainly.'' She seemed to be searching a drawer or a purse out of sight. ``I haven't anything but a five dollar bill. I'm so sorry'' --this in an absent manner, with most of her thoughts evidently still upon her work. She rose, leaned from the window, glanced up the street, then down. She went on:
``There comes Victor Dorn. He'll lend it to you.''
Along the ragged brick walk at a quick pace the man who had in such abrupt fashion stormed Jane Hasting's fancy and taken possession of her curiosity was advancing with a basket on his arm.
Jane cast about for a way to explain what seemed to her a self-evident truth. ``I mean--privacy,'' she said. ``For instance, if you were in love, you'd not want everybody to know about it?''
``Yes, indeed,'' declared Selma. ``I'd be tremendously proud of it. It must be wonderful to be in love.''
In one of those curious twists of feminine nature, Miss Hastings suddenly felt the glow of a strong, unreserved liking for this strange, candid girl.
Selma went on: ``But I'm afraid I never shall be. I get no time to think about myself. From rising till bed time my work pushes at me.'' She glanced uneasily at her desk, apologetically at Miss Hastings. ``I ought to be writing this minute. The strike is occupying Victor, and I'm helping out with his work.''
``I'm interrupting,'' said Jane. ``I'll go.'' She put out her hand with her best, her sweetest smile. ``We're going to be friends--aren't we?''
Selma clasped her hand heartily and said: ``We ARE friends. I like everybody. There's always something to like in everyone--and the bad part isn't their fault. But it isn't often that I like anyone so much as I do you. You are so direct and honest--quite different from the other women of your class that I've met.''
Jane felt unaccountably grateful and humble. ``I'm afraid you're too generous. I guess you're not a very good judge of people,'' she said.
``So Victor--Victor Dorn--says,'' laughed Selma. ``He says I'm too confiding. Well--why not? And really, he trusts everybody, too--except with the cause. Then he's--he's''--she glanced from face to face of the four pictures--``he's like those men.''
Jane's glance followed Selma's. She said: ``Yes--I should imagine so--from what I've heard.'' She startled, flushed, hid behind a somewhat constrained manner. ``Will you come up to my house to lunch?''
``If I can find time,'' said Selma. ``But I'd rather come and take you for a walk. I have to walk two hours every day. It's the only thing that'll keep my head clear.''
``When will you come?--to-morrow?''
``Is nine o'clock too early?''
Jane reflected that her father left for business at half-past eight. ``Nine to-morrow,'' she said. ``Good- by again.''
As she was mounting her horse, she saw ``the Cossack girl,'' as she was calling her, writing away at the window hardly three feet above the level of Jane's head when she was mounted, so low was the first story of the battered old frame house. But Selma did not see her; she was all intent upon the writing. ``She's forgotten me already,'' thought Jane with a pang of jealous vanity. She added: ``But SHE has SOMETHING to think about-- she and Victor Dorn.''
She was so preoccupied that she rode away with only an absent thank you for the small boy, in an older and much larger and wider brother's cast-off shirt, suspenders and trousers. At the corner of the avenue she remembered and turned her horse. There stood the boy gazing after her with a hypnotic intensity that made her smile. She rode back fumbling in her pockets. ``I beg your pardon,'' said she to the boy. Then she called up to Selma Gordon:
``Miss Gordon--please--will you lend me a quarter until to-morrow?''
Selma looked up, stared dazedly at her, smiled absently at Miss Hastings--and Miss Hastings had the strongest confirmation of her suspicion that Selma had forgotten her and her visit the instant she vanished from the threshold of the office. Said Selma: ``A quarter?--oh, yes--certainly.'' She seemed to be searching a drawer or a purse out of sight. ``I haven't anything but a five dollar bill. I'm so sorry'' --this in an absent manner, with most of her thoughts evidently still upon her work. She rose, leaned from the window, glanced up the street, then down. She went on:
``There comes Victor Dorn. He'll lend it to you.''
Along the ragged brick walk at a quick pace the man who had in such abrupt fashion stormed Jane Hasting's fancy and taken possession of her curiosity was advancing with a basket on his arm.