the conflict-第6章

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abit　which；　by　one　of　those　curious　freaks　of　character；　enormously　pleased　her　father。　　Butexcept　in　one　matterMartha　entirely　approved　Jane's　style　of　dress。　　She　hastened　to　pronounce　it　‘‘just　too　elegant''　and　repeated　that　phrase　until　Jane；　tried　beyond　endurance；　warned　her　that　the　word　elegant　was　not　used　seriously　by　people　of　the　‘‘right　sort''　and　that　its　use　was　regarded　as　one　of　those　small　but　subtle　signs　of　the　loathsome　‘‘middle　class。''

The　one　thing　in　Jane's　dress　that　Martha　disapproved　or；　rather；　shied　atwas　her　riding　suit。　　This　was　an　extremely　noisy　plaid　man's　suitfor　Jane　rode　astride。　　Martha　could　not　deny　that　Jane　looked　‘‘simply　stunning''　when　seated　on　her　horse　and　dressed　in　that　garb　with　her　long　slim　feet　and　graceful　calves　encased　in　a　pair　of　riding　boots　that　looked　as　if　they　must　have　cost　‘‘something　fierce。''　　But　was　it　really　‘‘ladylike''？　　Hadn't　Jane　made　a　mistake　and　adopted　a　costume　worn　only　by　the　fashionables　among　the　demi…mondaines　of　whom　Martha　had　read　and　had　heard　such　dreadful；　delightful　stories？

It　was　the　lively　plaid　that　Miss　Hastings　now　clad　herself　in。　　She　loved　that　suit。　　Not　only　did　it　give　her　figure　a　superb　opportunity　but　also　it　brought　out　new　beauties　in　her　contour　and　coloring。　　And　her　head　was　so　well　shaped　and　her　hair　grew　so　thickly　about　brow　and　ears　and　nape　of　neck　that　it　looked　full　as　well　plaited　and　done　close　as　when　it　was　framing　her　face　and　half　concealing；　half　revealing　her　charming　ears　in　waves　of　changeable　auburn。　　After　a　lingeringand　pardonably　pleasedlook　at　herself　in　a　long　mirror；　she　descended；　mounted　and　rode　slowly　down　toward　town。

The　old　Galland　homestead　was　at　the　western　end　of　townin　a　quarter　that　had　become　almost　poor。　　But　it　was　so　dignified　and　its　grounds　were　so　extensive　that　it　suggested　a　manor　house　with　the　humble　homes　of　the　lord's　dependents　clustering　about　it　for　shelter。　　To　reach　it　Jane　had　to　ride　through　two　filthy　streets　lined　with　factories。　　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？''

‘‘