Jane cast about for a way to explain what seemed to her a self-evident truth. "I mean—privacy," she said. "For instance, if you were in love, you'd not want everybody to know about it?"
"Yes, indeed," declared Selma. "I'd be tremendously proud of it. It must be wonderful to be in love."
In one of those curious twists of feminine nature, Miss Hastings suddenly felt the glow of a strong, unreserved liking for this strange, candid girl.
Selma went on: "But I'm afraid I never shall be. I get no time to think about myself. From rising till bed time my work pushes at me." She glanced uneasily at her desk, apologetically at Miss Hastings. "I ought to be writing this minute. The strike is occupying Victor, and I'm helping out with his work."
"I'm interrupting," said Jane. "I'll go." She put out her hand with her best, her sweetest smile. "We're going to be friends—aren't we?"
Selma clasped her hand heartily and said: "We ARE friends. I like everybody. There's always something to like in everyone—and the bad part isn't their fault. But it isn't often that I like anyone so much as I do you. You are so direct and honest—quite different from the other women of your class that I've met."
Jane felt unaccountably grateful and humble. "I'm afraid you're too generous. I guess you're not a very good judge of people," she said.
"So Victor—Victor Dorn—says," laughed Selma. "He says I'm too confiding. Well—why not? And really, he trusts everybody, too—except with the cause. Then he's—he's"—she glanced from face to face of the four pictures—"he's like those men."
Jane's glance followed Selma's. She said: "Yes—I should imagine so—from what I've heard." She startled, flushed, hid behind a somewhat constrained manner. "Will you come up to my house to lunch?"
"If I can find time," said Selma. "But I'd rather come and take you for a walk. I have to walk two hours every day. It's the only thing that'll keep my head clear."