er pitiful accomplishments: "golf,
bridge, ride, shoot, swim, sing (a little), dance, tennis, some
French--what a sickening list!"

She was glad that day to find Clare Gould waiting for her. As usual, the
girl had brought her tribute, this time some early strawberries. Audrey
found her in the pantry arranging their leaves in a shallow dish.

"Clare!" she said. "Aren't you working?"

"I've gone on night-turn now."

The girl's admiration salved her wounded pride in herself. Then she saw,
on a table, an envelope with her name on it. Clare's eyes followed hers.

"That's the rest of the money, Mrs. Valentine."

She colored, but Audrey only smiled at her.

"Fine!" she said. "Are you sure you can spare it?"

"I couldn't rest until it was all paid up. And I'm getting along fine. I
make a lot, really."

"Tell me about the night work."

"We've gone on double turn. I rather like it at night. It's--well, it's
like something on the stage. The sparks fly from the lathes, and they
look like fireworks. And when they hammer on hot metal it's lovely."

She talked on, incoherent but glowing. She liked her big turret lathe.
It gave her a sense of power. She liked to see the rough metal growing
smooth and shining like silver under her hands. She was naively pleased
that she was doing a man's work, and doing it well.

Audrey leaned back in her chair and listened. All this that Clare was
talking about was Clayton's doing. He at least had dreamed true. He was
doing a man's part, too, in the war. Even this girl, whose hand Natalie
Spencer would not have touched, this girl was dreaming true.

Clare was still talking. The draft would be hard on the plant. They were
short-handed now. There was talk of taking in more girls to replace the
men who would be called.

"Do you think I could operate a lathe, Clare?"

"You! Why, Mrs. Valentine, it's not work for a lady! Look at my hands."

But Audrey made an impatient gesture.

"I don't care about my hands. The question is, could I do it? I don't
seem able to do anything else."

"Why, yes." Clare was reluctant. "I can, and you're a lot cleverer than
I am. But it's hard. It's rough, and some of the talk--oh, I hope you
don't mean it, Mrs. Valentine."

Audrey, however, was meaning it. It seemed to her, all at once, the way
out. Here was work, needed work. Work that she could do. For the first
time in months she blessed the golf and riding that had kept her fit.

"Mr. Spencer is a frie