vibrate to sensations that were wholesome.  And between the lips were teeth that had never known nor needed the dentist’s care.  They were white and strong and regular, he decided, as he looked at them.  But as he looked, he began to be troubled.  Somewhere, stored away in the recesses of his mind and vaguely remembered, was the impression that there were people who washed their teeth every day.  They were the people from up above—­people in her class.  She must wash her teeth every day, too.  What would she think if she learned that he had never washed his teeth in all the days of his life?  He resolved to get a tooth-brush and form the habit.  He would begin at once, to-morrow.  It was not by mere achievement that he could hope to win to her.  He must make a personal reform in all things, even to tooth-washing and neck-gear, though a starched collar affected him as a renunciation of freedom.

He held up his hand, rubbing the ball of the thumb over the calloused palm and gazing at the dirt that was ingrained in the flesh itself and which no brush could scrub away.  How different was her palm!  He thrilled deliciously at the remembrance.  Like a rose-petal, he thought; cool and soft as a snowflake.  He had never thought that a mere woman’s hand could be so sweetly soft.  He caught himself imagining the wonder of a caress from such a hand, and flushed guiltily.  It was too gross a thought for her.  In ways it seemed to impugn her high spirituality.  She was a pale, slender spirit, exalted far beyond the flesh; but nevertheless the softness of her palm persisted in his thoughts.  He was used to the harsh callousness of factory girls and working women.  Well he knew why their hands were rough; but this hand of hers . . .  It was soft because she had never used it to work with.  The gulf yawned between her and him at the awesome thought of a person who did not have to work for a living.  He suddenly saw the aristocracy of the people who did not labor.  It towered before him on the wall, a figure in brass, arrogant and powerful.  He had worked himself; his first memories seemed connected with work, and all his family had worked.  There was Gertrude.  When her hands were not hard from the endless housework, they were swollen and red like boiled beef, what of the washing.  And there was his sister Marian.  She had worked in the cannery the preceding summer, and her slim, pretty hands were all scarred with the tomato-knives.  Besides, the tips of two of her fingers had been left in the cutting machine at the paper-box factory the preceding winter.  He remembered the hard palms of his mother as she lay in her coffin.  And his father had worked to the last fading gasp; the horned growth on his hands must have been half an inch thick when he died.  But Her hands were soft, and her mother’s hands, and her brothers’.  This last came to him as a surprise; it was tremendously indicative of the highness of their caste, of the enormous distance that stretched between her and him.