“So could the doctors,” mused Mary to herself, stirring away at the fudge.  “Imagine the doctors striking....  And so could the farmers.  Imagine the farmers striking for eight hours a day, and no work Sundays and holidays, and every Saturday afternoon off....”

Dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind.  She stirred the fudge more reflectively than ever.

“I wonder if civil wars are started that way,” she thought, “one class setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows.  Suppose—­yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a day, and as much money as the men, and Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, and all the rest of it....  The world certainly couldn’t get along without women.  As Becky says, they would only have to strike—­and strike—­and keep on striking—­and they could get everything they wanted—­”

Although she didn’t suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it.  But all unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge.

“I’ve always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with men,” she nodded to herself.  “Still, perhaps it’s the way of the world, like ... like children have the measles ... and old folks have to wear glasses.”

She put the pan on the sill to cool and stood there for a time, looking out at the campus, dreamy-eyed, half occupied with her own thoughts and half listening to the conversation behind her.

“There oughtn’t to be any such thing as private property—­”

“Why, Vera, if he kissed you in the dark, you couldn’t tell whether he was a man or a girl—­”

“—­Everything should belong to the state—­”

“—­No, listen.  Kiss me both ways, and then tell me which you think is the nicest—­”

A squeal of laughter arose from the bed and, turning, Mary saw that one of the girls was holding the back of a toothbrush against her upper lip.

“Now,” she mumbled, “this is with the moustache ...  Kiss me hard ...”

“The greatest book in the world,” continued the girl with the spectacles, “is Marx’s book on Capital—­”

Mary turned to the window again, more dreamy-eyed than ever.

“The greatest book in the world,” she thought, “is the book of life....  Oh, if I could only write a few pages in it ... myself ...!”

CHAPTER X

Mary “came out” the winter after her graduation.

If she had been left to herself she would have dispensed with the ceremony quite as cheerfully as she had dispensed with Miss Parsons’ School for Young Ladies.  But in the first place her aunts were adamant, and in the second place they were assisted by Helen.  Helen hadn’t been going to finishing school for nothing.  She knew the value of a proper social introduction.

Indeed it was her secret ambition to outshine her cousin—­an ambition which was at once divined by her two aunts.  Whereupon they groomed Mary to such good purpose that I doubt if Society ever looked upon a lovelier debutante.