"Well, it is. I don't know who arranged these things, no more than any one else, though a good many make a comfortable income by telling you that they do. But it's pretty obvious that it is so; that's enough for me."
"I don't see why it's obvious," Sally persisted.
Janet stood away from the table and held out her arms—the thin, fleshless arms—straight, no deviation to the ungainly shoulders. There was unconscious drama in it. Yet she was the last person in the world to act.
"Well, look at me," she said.
Sally only looked at her eyes, and her lips twitched compassionately.
"You may be all wrong," she said. "I may have to fight as well—you don't know—and somebody, you can never tell, may fight for you."
Janet took the round, warm cheeks in her hands and caressed them with the long, sensitive fingers.
"That'll never be," she said quietly—"never—never. I know it right away in here." She laid her hand upon her chest.
"But why?" Sally repeated petulantly, as though wishing it could alter the truth.
"Because I suppose I really want to do the fighting, however much I may think differently, when I see you and hear you talk, when your heart's going and there's all the meaning of it in your eyes. I've got to fight, and away inside me I want to. I suppose that's the compensation."