``That's all right,'' said Dorn carelessly.``Thank you, and good day.'' And with a polite raising of the hat and a manner of good humored friendliness that showed how utterly unconscious he was of her being offended at him, he hastened across the street and went in at the gate where the boy had vanished.And Jane had the sense that he had forgotten her.She glanced nervously up at the window to see whether Selma Gordon was witnessing her humiliation--for so she regarded it.But Selma was evidently lost in a world of her own.``She doesn't love him,'' Jane decided.``For, even though she is a strange kind of person, she's a woman--and if she had loved him she couldn't have helped watching while he talked with another woman-- especially with one of my appearance and class.''
Jane rode slowly away.At the corner--it was a long block--she glanced toward the scene she had just quitted.Involuntarily she drew rein.Victor and the boy had come out into the street and were playing catches.The game did not last long.Dorn let the boy corner him and seize him, then gave him a great toss into the air, catching him as he came down and giving him a hug and a kiss.The boy ran shouting merrily into the yard; Victor disappeared in the entrance to the offices of the New Day.
That evening, as she pretended to listen to Hull on national politics, and while dressing the following morning Jane reflected upon her adventure.She decided that Dorn and the ``wild girl''
were a low, ill-mannered pair with whom she had nothing in common, that her fantastic, impulsive interest in them had been killed, that for the future she would avoid ``all that sort of cattle.'' She would receive Selma Gordon politely, of course--would plead headache as an excuse for not walking, would get rid of her as soon as possible.``No doubt,'' thought Jane, with the familiar, though indignantly denied, complacence of her class, ``as soon as she gets in here she'll want to hang on.She played it very well, but she must have been crazy with delight at my noticing her and offering to take her up.''
The postman came as Jane was finishing breakfast.He brought a note from Selma--a hasty pencil scrawl on a sheet of printer's copy paper:
``Dear Miss Hastings: For the present I'm too busy to take my walks.So, I'll not be there to-morrow.With best regards, S.
G.'
Such a fury rose up in Jane that the undigested breakfast went wrong and put her in condition to give such exhibition as chance might tempt of that ugliness of disposition which appears from time to time in all of us not of the meek and worm-like class, and which we usually attribute to any cause under the sun but the vulgar right one.``The impertinence!'' muttered Jane, with a second glance at the note which conveyed; among other humiliating things, an impression of her own absolute lack of importance to Selma Gordon.``Serves me right for lowering myself to such people.If I wanted to try to do anything for the working class I'd have to keep away from them.They're so unattractive to look at and to associate with--not like those shrewd, respectful, interesting peasants one finds on the other side.They're better in the East.They know their place in a way.But out here they're insufferable.''
And she spent the morning quarrelling with her maid and the other servants, issuing orders right and left, working herself into a horrible mood dominated by a headache that was anything but a pretense.As she wandered about the house and gardens, she trailed a beautiful negligee with that carelessness which in a woman of clean and orderly habits invariably indicates the possession of many clothes and of a maid who can be counted on to freshen things up before they shall be used again.Her father came home to lunch in high good humor.
``I'll not go down town again for a few days,'' said he.``Ireckon I'd best keep out of the way.That scoundrelly Victor Dorn has done so much lying and inciting these last four or five years that it ain't safe for a man like me to go about when there's trouble with the hands.''
``Isn't it outrageous!'' exclaimed Jane.``He ought to be stopped.''
Hastings chuckled and nodded.``And he will be,'' said he.
``Wait till this strike's over.''
``When will that be?'' asked Jane.
``Mighty soon,'' replied her father.``I was ready for 'em this time--good and ready.I've sent word to the governor that I want the militia down here tomorrow----''
``Has there been a riot?'' cried Jane anxiously.
``Not yet,'' said Hastings.He was laughing to himself.``But there will be to-night.Then the governor'll send the troops in to-morrow afternoon.''
``But maybe the men'll be quiet, and then----'' began Jane, sick inside and trembling.
``When I say a thing'll happen, it'll happen,'' interrupted her father.``We've made up our minds it's time to give these fellows a lesson.It's got to be done.A milder lesson'll serve now, where later on it'd have to be hard.I tell you these things because I want you to remember 'em.They'll come in handy--when you'll have to look after your own property.''
She knew how her father hated the thought of his own death; this was the nearest he had ever come to speaking of it.``Of course, there's your brother William,'' he went on.``William's a good boy--and a mighty good business man--though he does take risks I'd never 'a took--not even when I was young and had nothing to lose.Yes--and Billy's honest.BUT''--the big head shook impressively--``William's human, Jenny --don't ever forget that.
The love of money's an awful thing.'' A lustful glitter like the shine of an inextinguishable fire made his eyes fascinating and terrible.``It takes hold of a man and never lets go.To see the money pile up--and up--and up.''
The girl turned away her gaze.She did not wish to see so far into her father's soul.It seemed a hideous indecency.
``So, Jenny--don't trust William, but look after your own property.''
