“Oh!  I hate talking shop,” he said one day.

“But you do it so well,” she replied quietly.  “It seems so much more interesting than art when you talk about it.  After all, art is only some one person’s idea about something they generally don’t understand.”

There is no wonder that the man hated her.  But for Sally, he formed a deep attachment that was only kept in check and controlled by the remembrance of the superiority of his position.  Class bias is universal, and is based almost entirely upon possession.  The school-boy who has more pocket-money, the lodger who has the only bed-sitting-room in the house, and the man who has the largest rent-roll, are always socially above those in their immediate surroundings.  Possession being nine points of the law is also nine points of class superiority.  That Mr. Arthur should have stepped down from his high estate and condescended to have his meals with them, was proof enough that the man was in earnest.  But his interest in her was not reciprocated.

“I couldn’t marry Mr. Arthur,” she said; “not even if he was the manager of his old bank.”

“But why not?”

“Because I could never love him; not even respect him.”

“That’s what fetters women.”

“What?”

“That idea that they’ve got to marry the man they love.  They’ve grown to think—­unconsciously almost—­that to give him love, blinded, is a fair exchange for his provision of a home.  They’ll never win their independence that way.”

“I don’t want my independence,” said Sally.

“Then why do you work for it?” asked Janet.

“Because I didn’t want to be a clog on my own people—­because I wanted to be free to answer to myself.”

“Then why don’t you carry that idea further?  Why make yourself free, simply to tie yourself up again at the first chance you get?”

“I don’t call it tying myself up to marry a man I’m in love with and who loves me.  That’s happiness.  I know I shall be perfectly happy.”

Janet lifted her head and in a thoroughly professional manner blew a long, thin stream of smoke from between her lips.

“How long do you think that happiness is going to last?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You chance it?”

“Yes.”

“And then when the end comes you have not even got yourself to fall back upon.  You’re done for—­sucked dry.  You fall to pieces because you’ve sold your independence.”

Sally left the dressing-table and crossed to Janet’s bed.  Sitting there, she put her bare arms on Janet’s shoulders.

“It’s no good your talking like that,” she said gently.  “You think that way, and right or wrong I think the other.  If I loved a man and he loved me, I’d willingly sell my independence, willingly do anything for him.”

“Supposing he wasn’t going to marry you?” said Janet, imperturbably.

“Then he wouldn’t love me.”