Win had been marshalling her ideas like an army hastily assembled to fight in the dark.

“That is a favour I couldn’t refuse to take from you, even if I would,” she said in a low voice, “to help my friends.”

“It is no favour.  You’ll be doing me that.”

She went on as if he had not spoken.

“I don’t know about any shops in New York except this one—­only things I’ve heard.  Some of the girls I’ve met here have worked in other department stores.  They say—­this is one of the worst.  I have to tell you that—­now I’ve begun.  There’s no use keeping it back—­or you won’t understand how I feel.  There are real abuses.  The Hands don’t break the laws—­that’s all.  About hours—­we close at the right time, but the salespeople are kept late, often very late, looking over stock.  Not every night for the same people, but several times a week.  We have seats, but we mustn’t use them.  It would look as if we were lazy—­or business were bad.  We ‘lend’ the management half the time we’re allowed for meals on busy days—­and never have it given back.  The meals themselves served in the restaurant—­the dreadful restaurant—­seem cheap, but they ought to be cheaper, for they’re almost uneatable.  Those of us who can’t go out get ptomain poisoning and appendicitis.  I know of cases.  Hardly any of us can afford enough to eat on our salaries.  I should think our blood must be almost white!

“But nobody here cares how we live out of business hours, so long as we’re ‘smart’ and look nice.  When we aren’t smart—­because we’re ill, perhaps—­and can’t any longer look nice—­because we’re getting older or are too tired to care—­why, then we have to go; poor, worn-out machines—­fit for the junk shop, not for a department store!  Even here, in Mantles, where we get a commission, the weak ones go to the wall.  We must be like wolves to make anything we can save for a rainy day.  But any girl or man who’ll consent to act the spy on others—­there’s a way to earn money, lots of it.  A few are tempted.  They must degenerate more and more, I think!  And there are other things that drive some of us—­the women, I mean—­to desperation.  But I can’t tell you about them.  You must find out for yourself—­if you care.”

“If I care!” echoed Peter.

“If you do, why haven’t you found out all these things, and more, long ago?” she almost taunted him, carried away once again by the thought of those she championed—­the “friends” she had not come to in her story yet.

“Because—­my father made it a point that I should keep my hands off the Hands.  That was the way he put it.  I must justify myself far enough to tell you that.”

“But—­if one’s in earnest, need one take no for an answer?”

“I suppose I wasn’t in earnest enough.  I thought I was.  But I couldn’t have been.  You’re making me see that now.”

“I haven’t told you half!”

“Then—­go on.”