place seems alive, hushed, expectant, watching every move of its
visitors, breathing suggestions to them--

"Do you like it?" asked Mary, breaking the silence.

Archey nodded, afraid for the moment to trust himself to speak. They
looked at each other and, almost in haste, they went outside.

"He'll never get over that trick of blushing," thought Mary. At the end
of the hall was a closet door with a mirror set in it. She caught sight
of her own cheeks. "Oh, dear!" she breathed to herself. "I wonder if I'm
catching it, too!"

Once outside, Archey began talking with the concentration of a man who is
trying to put his mind on something else.

"This work up here was a lucky turn for some of the strikers," he said.
"Things are getting slack again now and men are being laid off. Here and
there I begin to hear the old grumbling, 'Three thousand women keeping
three thousand men out of jobs.' So whenever I hear that, I remind them
how you found work for a lot of the men up here--and then of course I
tell them it was their own fault--going on strike in the first
place--just to get four women discharged!"

"And even if three thousand women are doing the work of three thousand
men," said Mary, "I don't see why any one should object--if the women
don't. The wages are being spent just the same to pay rent and buy food
and clothes--and the savings are going into the bank--more so than when
the men were drawing the money!"

"I guess it's a question of pride on the man's part--as much as anything
else--"

"Oh, Archey--don't you think a woman has pride, too?"

"Well, you know what I mean. He feels he ought to be doing the work,
instead of the woman."

"Oh, Archey," she said again. "Can't you begin to see that the average
woman has always worked harder than the average man? You ask any of the
women at the factory which is the easiest--the work they are doing
now--or the work they used to do."

"I keep forgetting that. But how about this--I hear it all the time.
Suppose the idea spreads and after a while there are millions of women
doing work that used to be done by men--what are the men going to do?"

"That's a secret," she laughed. "But I'll tell you some day--if you're
good--"

The friendly words slipped out unconsciously, but for some reason her
tone and manner made his heart hammer away like that powerful downward
passage of the Anvil Chorus. "I'll be good," he managed to say.

Mary hardly heard him.

"I wonder what