“Say,” Ella’s face was suddenly drawn and ugly, “say, where do you get off to pull this conscience stuff?  You’ve always had a nice home, an’ pretty clothes, an’ clean vittles, an’—­an’ love!  I ain’t had any of it.  But,” her eyes flamed, “I’m goin’ to!  Don’t you dast ter pull this conscience stuff on me—­I’ve heard you profess’nal slummers talk before—­a lot o’ times.  What good has a conscience ever done me—­huh?”

Rose-Marie had been watching the girl’s face.  Of a sudden she shot her thunderbolt.

“Are you running away to be married, Ella?” she asked.

A second flush ran over Ella’s face, and receded slowly—­leaving it very pale.  But her head went up rather gallantly.

“No, I ain’t,” she retorted.  “Marriage,” she said the words parrot-like, “was made fer th’ sort o’ folks who can’t stick at nothin’ unless they’re tied.  I ain’t one of those folks!”

Across the nearly forgotten suit-case, Rose-Marie leaned toward Ella Volsky.  Her eyes were suddenly hot with anger.

“Who gave you that sort of an argument?” she demanded.  “Who has been filling your head with lies?  You never thought of that yourself, Ella—­I know you never thought of that yourself!”

Ella’s eyes met Rose-Marie’s angry glance.  Her words, when she spoke, came rapidly—­almost tumbled over each other.  It was as if some class-resentment, long repressed, were breaking its bounds.

“How d’ you know,” she demanded passionately, “that I didn’t think of that myself?  How do you know?  You’re th’ only one, I s’pose,” her tone was suddenly mocking, “that knows how t’ think!  No”—­as Rose-Marie started to interrupt—­“don’t try t’ pull any alibi on me!  I know th’ way you Settlement House ladies”—­she accented the word—­“feel about us.  You have clubs for us, an’ parties, an’ uplift meetin’s.  You pray fer us—­an’ with us.  You tell us who t’ marry, an’ how t’ bring up our children, an’ what butcher t’ buy our meat off of.  But when it comes t’ understandin’ us—­an’ likin’ us!  Well, you’re too good, that’s all.”  She paused, staring at Rose-Marie’s incredulous face with insolent eyes.

“You’re like all th’ rest,” she went on, after a moment, “just like all th’ rest.  I was beginnin’ t’ think that you was diff’rent.  You’ve been so white about Bennie.  An’ you washed Ma’s hair—­I wouldn’t ‘a’ done that myself!  But now—­now it sticks out all over you; th’ I’m-better-’n-you-are stuff.  I never could think of a thing, I couldn’t.  But you—­you’re smart, you are.  You could think—­”

Rose-Marie’s cheeks were flushed with a very real resentment, as she interrupted the girl’s flow of half-articulate speech.