"I am thinking out a very important matter," replied Selma, with frank hostility. "I prefer not to be interrupted."
"Selma!" pleaded Jane. "What have I done to turn you against me?"
Selma stood, silent, incarnation of freedom and will. She looked steadily at Jane. "You haven't done anything," she replied. "On impulse I liked you. On sober second thought I don't. That's all."
"You gave me your friendship," said Jane. "You've no right to withdraw it without telling me why."
"You are not of my class. You are of the class that is at war with mine—at war upon it. When you talk of friendship to me, you are either false to your own people or false in your professions to me."
Selma's manner was rudely offensive—as rude as Jane's dust, to which it was perhaps a retort. Jane showed marvelous restraint. She told herself that she felt compassionate toward this attractive, honest, really nice girl. It is possible, however, that an instinct of prudence may have had something to do with her ultra-conciliatory attitude toward the dusty little woman in the cheap linen dress. The enmity of one so near to Victor Dorn was certainly not an advantage. Instead of flaring up, Jane said:
"Now, Selma—do be human—do be your sweet, natural self. It isn't my fault that I am what I am. And you know that I really belong heart and soul with you."
"Then come with us," said Selma. "If you think the life you lead is foolish—why, stop leading it."
"You know I can't," said Jane mournfully.
"I know you could," retorted Selma. "Don't be a hypocrite, Jane."