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As she rode she glanced at the windows； where could be seen in dusty air girls and boys busy at furiously driven machines machines that compelled their human slaves to strain every nerve in the monotonous task of keeping them occupied。 Many of the girls and boys paused long enough for a glance at the figure of the man…clad girl on the big horse。
Jane； happy in the pleasant sunshine； in her beauty and health and fine raiment and secure and luxurious position in the world； gave a thought of pity to these imprisoned young people。 ‘‘How lucky I am；'' she thought； ‘‘not to have been born like that。 Of course； we all have our falls now and then。 But while they always strike on the hard ground； I've got a feather bed to fall on。''
When she reached Martha's and was ushered into the cool upstairs sitting room； in somehow ghastly contrast to the hot rooms where the young working people sweated and strained； the subject persisted in its hold on her thoughts。 There was Martha； in comfortable； corsetless expansivenessan ideal illustration of the worthless idler fattening in purposelessness。 She was engaged with all her energies in preparing for the ball Hugo Galland's sister； Mrs。 Bertrand； was giving at the assembly rooms that night。
‘‘I've been hard at it for several days now；'' said she。 ‘‘I think at last I see daylight。 But I want your opinion。''
Jane gazed absently at the dress and accompanying articles that had been assembled with so much labor。 ‘‘All right；'' said she。 ‘‘You'll look fine and dandy。''
Martha twitched。 ‘‘Jane； deardon't say that don't use such an expression。 I know it's your way of joking。 But lots of people would think you didn't know any better。''
‘‘Let 'em think；'' said Jane。 ‘‘I say and do as I please。''
Martha sighed。 Here was one member of her family who could be a credit； who could make people forget the unquestionably common origin of the Hastingses and of the Morleys。 Yet this member was always breaking out into something mortifying； something reminiscent of the farm and of the livery stablefor the deceased Mrs。 Hastings had been daughter of a livery stable keeperin fact； had caught Martin Hastings by the way she rode her father's horses at a sale at a county fair。 Said Martha：
‘‘You haven't really looked at my clothes； Jane。 Why DID you go back to calling yourself Jane？''
‘‘Because it's my name；'' replied her sister。
‘‘I know that。 But you hated it and changed it to Jeanne； which is so much prettier。''
‘‘I don't think so any more；'' replied Miss Hastings。 ‘‘My taste has improved。 Don't be so horribly middle class； Marthaashamed of everything simple and natural。''
‘‘You think you know it alldon't you？just because you've lived abroad；'' said Martha peevishly。
‘‘On the contrary； I don't know one…tenth as much as I thought I did； when I came back from Wellesley with a diploma。''
‘‘Do you like my costume？'' inquired Martha； eying her finery with the fond yet dubious expression of the woman who likes her own taste but is not sure about its being good taste。
‘‘What a lazy； worthless pair we are！'' exclaimed Jane； hitting her boot leg a tremendous rap with her little cane。
Martha startled。 ‘‘Good GodJanewhat is it？'' she cried。
‘‘On the way here I passed a lot of factories；'' pursued Jane。 ‘‘Why should those people have to work likelike the devil； while we sit about planning ball dresses？''
Martha settled back comfortably。 ‘‘I feel so sorry for those poor people；'' said she； absently sympathetic。
‘‘But why？'' demanded Jane。 ‘‘WHY？ Why should we be allowed to idle while they have to slave？ What have we donewhat are we doingto entitle us to ease？ What have they done to condemn them to pain and toil？''
‘‘You know very well； Jane； that we represent the finer side of life。''
‘‘Slop！'' ejaculated Jane。
‘‘For pity's sake； don't let's talk politics；'' wailed Martha。 ‘‘I know nothing about politics。 I haven't any brains for that sort of thing。''
‘‘Is that politics？'' inquired Jane。 ‘‘I thought politics meant whether the Democrats or the Republicans or the reformers were to get the offices and the chance to steal。''
‘‘Everything's politics； nowadays；'' said Martha； comparing the color of the material of her dress with the color of her fat white arm。 ‘‘As Hugo says； that Victor Dorn is dragging everything into politicseven our private business of how we make and spend our own money。''
Jane sat down abruptly。 ‘‘Victor Dorn；'' she said in a strange voice。 ‘‘WHO is Victor Dorn？ WHAT is Victor Dorn？ It seems that I can hear of nothing but Victor Dorn to…day。''
‘‘He's too low to talk about；'' said Martha； amiable and absent。
‘‘Why？''
‘‘Politics；'' replied Martha。 ‘‘Really； he is horrid； Jane。''
‘‘To look at？''
‘‘Nonot to look at。 He's handsome in a way。 Not at all common looking。 You might take him for a gentleman； if you didn't know。
Stillhe always dresses peculiarlyalways wears soft hats。 I think soft hats are SO vulgardon't you？''
‘‘How hopelessly middle…class you are； Martha；'' mocked Jane。
‘‘Hugo would as soon think of going in the street in ain aI don't know what。''
‘‘Hugo is the finest flower of American gentleman。 That is； he's the quintessence of everything that's nice and ‘nasty。' I wish I were married to him for a week。 I love Hugo； but he gives me the creeps。'' She rose and tramped restlessly about the room。 ‘‘You both give me the creeps。 Everything conventional gives me the creeps。 If I'm not careful I'll dress myself in a long shirt； let down my hair and run wild。''
‘‘What nonsense you do talk；'' said Martha composedly。
Jane sat down abruptly。 ‘‘So I do！'' she said。 ‘‘I'm as poor a creature as you at bottom。 I simply like to beat against the bars of my cage to make myself think I'm a wild； free bird by nature。 If you opened the door； I'd not fly out； but would hop meekly back to my perch and fall to smoothing my feathers。 。 。 。 Tell me some more about Victor Dorn。''
‘‘I told you he isn't fit to talk about；'' said Martha。 ‘‘Do you know； they say now that he is carrying on with that shameless； brazen thing who writes for his paper； that Selma Gordon？''
‘‘Selma Gordon；'' echoed Jane。 Her brows came down in a gesture reminiscent of her father； and there was a disagreeable expression about her mouth and in her light brown eyes。 ‘‘Who's Selma Gordon？''
‘‘She makes speechesand writes articles against rich peopleandoh； she's horrid。''
‘‘Pretty？''
‘‘Noa scrawny； black thing。 The mensome of themsay she's got a kind of uncanny fascination。 Some even insist that she's beautiful。'' Martha laughed。 ‘‘Beautiful！ How could a woman with black hair and a dark skin and no flesh on her bones be beautiful？''
‘‘It has been known to happen；'' said Jane curtly。 ‘‘Is she one of THE Gordons？''
‘‘Mercy； no！'' cried Martha Galland。 ‘‘She simply took the name of Gordonthat is； her father did。 He was a Russian peasanta Jew。 And he fell in love with a girl who was of noble familya princess； I think。''
‘‘Princess doesn't mean much in Russia；'' said Jane sourly。
‘‘Anyhow； they ran away to this country。 And he worked in the rolling mill hereand they both die