Mary Adams rose with a gesture of impatience, walked to her window and gazed on the torrent of humanity pouring through Twenty-third Street from the beehives of industry that have changed this quarter of New York so rapidly in the last five years. She turned suddenly and confronted her friend.
“How could you think that I would stoop to such a thing?”
“Yes,” she snapped, “--pose for an artist! I'd as soon think of rushing stark naked through Twenty-third Street at noon!”
The older woman looked at her flushed face, suppressed a sharp answer, broke into a fit of laughter and threw her arms around Mary's neck.
“Honey, you're such a hopeless little fool, you're delicious! You know that I love you--don't you?”
“Could I possibly ask you to do a thing that would harm a single brown hair of your head?”
The firm hand of the older girl touched a rebellious lock with tenderness.
“Of course not, from your point of view, Jane dear,” the stubborn lips persisted. “But you see it's not my point of view. You're older than I----”
“Hoity toity, Miss! I'm just twenty-eight and you're twenty-four. Age is not measured by calendars these days.”
“I didn't mean that,” the girl apologized. “But you're an artist. You're established and distinguished. You belong to a different world.”
Jane Anderson laid her hand softly on her friend's.
“That's just it, dear. I do belong to a different world--a big new world of whose existence you are not quite conscious. You are living in the old, old world in which women have groped for thousands of years. I don't mind confessing that I undertook this job of getting you to pose for Gordon for a double purpose. I wished to do something to repay the debt I owe him--but I wished far more to be of help to you. You're living in the Dark Ages, and it's a dangerous thing for a pretty girl to live in the Dark Ages and date her letters from New York to-day----”
She paused suddenly and changed her tone.
“Tell me now, are you happy in your work?”
“I'm earning sixty dollars a month--my position is secure----”
“I don't expect to teach school all my life,” was the vague answer.
“Exactly. You loathe the sight of a school-room. You do the task they set you because your father's a clergyman and can't support his big family. You're waiting and longing for the day of your deliverance--isn't it so?”