Part 9

"To look at?"

"No--not 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. Still--he always dresses peculiarly--always wears soft hats. I think soft hats are SO vulgar--don't you?"

"How hopelessly middle-class you are, Martha," mocked Jane.

"Hugo would as soon think of going in the street in a--in a--I 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 speeches--and writes articles against rich people--and--oh, she's horrid."

"Pretty?"

"No--a scrawny, black thing. The men--some of them--say 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 Gordon--that is, her father did. He was a Russian peasant--a Jew. And he fell in love with a girl who was of noble family--a 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 here--and they both died--and Selma became a factory girl--and then took to writing for the New Day--that's Victor Dorn's paper, you know."

"How romantic," said Jane sarcastically. "And now Victor Dorn's in love with her?"

"I didn't say that," replied Martha, with a scandal-smile.

Jane Hastings went to the window and gazed out into the garden. Martha resumed her habitual warm day existence--sat rocking gently and fanning herself and looking leisurely about the room. Presently she said:

"Jane, why don't you marry Davy Hull?"

No answer.

"He's got an independent income--so there's no question of his marrying for money. And there isn't any family anywhere that's better than his--mighty few as good. And he's DEAD in love with you, Jen."

With her back still turned Jane snapped, "I'd rather marry Victor Dorn."

"What OUTRAGEOUS things you do say!" cried Martha.

"I envy that black Jewess--that--what's her name?--that Selma Gordon."

"You don't even know them," said Martha.

Jane wheeled round with a strange laugh. "Don't I?" cried she.

"I don't know anyone else."