"What would you do?" she asked.
"I don't know," he replied. "I guess I'd advertise for women in other cities-cities where they did this sort of thing during the war."
"Bridgeport, for instance," suggested another.
"Pittsburgh—there were a lot of women doing machine work there—"
"St. Louis," said a fourth. "Some of the shops in St. Louis were half full of women—" With the help they gave her, Mary made up a list.
"Even if you could fill the places locally," said the first, "I think I'd get a few women from as many places as possible. It spreads the idea—makes a bigger story—rounds out the whole scheme."
After they had gone Mary sat thoughtful for a few minutes and then returned to the drawing room. When she entered, Helen and Wally were seated on the music bench, and it seemed to Mary that they suddenly drew apart—or if I may express a distinction, that Wally suddenly drew apart while Helen played a chord upon the piano.
"Poor Wally," thought Mary a little later. "I wish he wouldn't look like that when he sings…. Perhaps he feels like I felt this spring…. I wonder if Ma'm was right…. I wonder if people do fall in love with love…."
Her reflections took a strange turn, half serious, half humorous.
"It's like a trap, almost, when you think of it that way," she thought. "When a man falls in love, he can climb out again and go on with his work, and live his life, and do wonderful things if he has a chance. But when a woman falls in the trap, she can never climb out and live her own life again. I wonder if the world wouldn't be better off if the women had been allowed to go right on and develop themselves, and do big things like the men do….