"Do tell me," she asked, "you are the Miss Thurnbrein who has written so much upon woman labour, aren't you?"
"I have written one or two articles," Julia replied, looking straight ahead of her.
"I read one in the National Review," Elisabeth continued, "and another in one of the evening papers. I can't tell you, Miss Thurnbrein, how interested I was."
Julia turned and looked slowly at her questioner. Her cheeks seemed more pallid than usual, her eyes were full of smouldering fire.
"I didn't write to interest people," she said calmly. "I wrote to punish them, to let them know a little of what they were guilty."
"But surely," Elisabeth protested, "you make some excuse for those who have really no opportunity for finding out? There is a society now, I am told, for watching over the conditions of woman labour in the east end. Is that so really?"
"There is such a society," Julia admitted. "I am the secretary of it."
"You must let me join," Elisabeth begged. "Please do. Won't you come and see me one afternoon—any afternoon—and tell me all about it? Indeed I am in earnest," she went on, a little puzzled at the other's unresponsiveness. "This isn't just a whim. I am really interested in these matters, but it is so hard to help, unless one is put in the right way."
"The time has passed," Julia pronounced, "when patronage is of any assistance to such societies as the one we were speaking of. Nothing is of any use now but hard, grim work. We don't want money. We don't need support of any kind whatever. We need work and brains."
"I am afraid," Elisabeth said, as she held out her hand, "that you think
I am incapable of either."