h
extraordinary times, everything topsy turvy. I ought to have realized
--it was stupid of me--I know several factory girls in New York, I've
been to their meetings, I've had them at my house--shirtwaist strikers."

She assumed again the willowy, a position, her fingers clasped across her
knee, her eyes supplicatingly raised to Janet. Then she reached out her
hand and touched the I.W.W. button. "Do tell me all about the Industrial
Workers, and what they believe," she pleaded.

"Well," said Janet, after a slight pause, "I'm afraid you won't like it
much. Why do you want to know?"

"Because I'm so interested--especially in the women of the movement. I
feel for them so, I want to help--to do something, too. Of course you're
a suffragist."

"You mean, do I believe in votes for women? Yes, I suppose I do."

"But you must," declared Mrs. Brocklehurst, still sweetly, but with
emphasis. "You wouldn't be working, you wouldn't be striking unless you
did."

"I've never thought about it," said Janet.

"But how are you working girls ever going to raise wages unless you get
the vote? It's the only way men ever get anywhere--the politicians listen
to them." She produced from her bag a gold pencil and a tablet. "Mrs. Ned
Carfax is here from Boston--I saw her for a moment at the hotel she's
been here investigating for nearly three days, she tells me. I'll have
her send you suffrage literature at once, if you'll give me your
address."

"You want a vote?" asked Janet, curiously, gazing at the pearl earrings.

"Certainly I want one."

"Why?"

"Why?" repeated Mrs. Brocklehurst.

"Yes. You must have everything you want."

Even then the lady's sweet reasonableness did not desert her. She smiled
winningly, displaying two small and even rows of teeth.

"On principle, my dear. For one reason, because I have such sympathy with
women who toil, and for another, I believe the time has come when women
must no longer be slaves, they must assert themselves, become
individuals, independent."

"But you?" exclaimed Janet.

Mrs. Brocklehurst continued to smile encouragingly, and murmured "Yes?"

"You are not a slave."

A delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell, spread over Mrs.
Brocklehurst's cheeks.

"We're all slaves," she declared with a touch of passion. "It's hard for
you to realize, I know, about those of us who seem more fortunate than
our sisters. But it's true. The men give us jewels and automobiles and
clothes, b