“Miss Spencer,” immediately began the spokesman—­he who looked like the orator—­“we have been appointed a committee by the automatic shop to tell you that we do not believe in the dilution of labour by women.  Unless the four women who are working in our department are laid off at once, the men in our shop will quit.”

“Just a moment, please,” said Mary, ringing.  “Joe, will you please tell Mr. Woodward, Sr., that I would like to see him?”

“He’s just gone out,” said Joe.

“Mr. Burdon, then.”

“Mr. Burdon sent word he wouldn’t be down today.  He’s gone to New York.”

Mary thought that over.

“Joe,” she said.  “There are four women working in the automatic shop.  I wish you’d go and bring them here.”  And turning to the committee she said, “I think there must be some way of settling this to everybody’s satisfaction, if we all get together and try.”

It wasn’t long before the four women came in, and again it struck Mary how nervous and bewildered three of them looked.  The fourth, however, held her back straight and seemed to walk more than upright.

“Now,” smiled Mary to the spokesman of the committee, “won’t you tell me, please, what fault you find with these four women?”

“As I understand it,” he replied, “we are not here to argue the point.  Same time, I don’t see the harm of telling you what we think about it.  First place, it isn’t natural for a woman to be working in a factory.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, if you don’t mind me speaking out, because she has babies.”

“But the war has proved a baby is lucky to have its mother working in a modern factory,” replied Mary.  “The work is easier than housework, the surroundings are better, the matter is given more attention.  As a result, the death rate of factory babies has been lower than the death rate of home babies.  Don’t you think that’s a good thing?  Wouldn’t you like to see it go on?”

“Who says factory work is easier than housework?”

“The women who have tried both.  These four, for instance.”

“Well, another thing,” he said, “a woman can’t be looking after her children when she’s working in a factory.”

“That’s true.  But she can’t be looking after them, either, when she’s washing, or cooking, or doing things like that.  They lie and cry—­or crawl around and fall downstairs—­or sit on the doorstep—­or play in the street.

“Now, here, during the war,” she continued, “we had a day nursery.  You never saw such happy children in your life.  Why, almost the only time they cried was when they had to go home at night!” Mary’s eyes brightened at the memory of it.  “Didn’t your son’s wife have a baby in the nursery, Mr. Edsol?”

“Two,” he solemnly nodded.

“For another thing,” said the chairman, “a woman is naturally weaker than a man.  You couldn’t imagine a woman standing up under overtime, for instance.”