She was not embarking upon an artistic career; she was learning a trade. But seeing about her so many newspapers, so many magazines, carloads of volumes in the department stores, she reflected that it was a useful trade. These miles of printing brought refreshment and wider viewpoint to millions. "If I can be only a good workman, producing sound, wholesome, true things, I will be doing something of value," she consoled herself.
Mr. Hayden accepted the first story in the "San Francisco Nights," series, refused the second. She began on a third, and when her article on immigration was returned from the East she sent it out again. She had better fortune with a story on California farming conditions, which sold to a national farm paper. Establishing a market for her work was her hope for the future; if she succeeded she could still work in Ripley, and the work would be something entirely her own.
She did not analyze this need to keep a fragment of life apart for herself, but quite plainly she saw the value of having her own small income. Her relation to Paul had nothing to do with money; in their love they were equal, and when Paul added the fruit of his work to the scale the balance would be uneven. She knew too well the difference between earning money and caring for a house to believe that her tasks would earn what he must give her.
Working against time, she poured her energies into building an acquaintance with editors, into learning their requirements. Meantime her department in the "Post" gave her the tiny income that met her expenses. Late at night she sat opening letters and typing prudent replies for its columns.
"And the unions are striking for an eight-hour day!" she said to Marian, encountering her amid clattering typewriters in the "Post's" local room. "Me, I'd strike for forty-eight hours between sun and sun!"
"'The best of all ways to lengthen your days is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear'!" Marian quoted gaily. Her piquant, kitten-like face, with its pointed chin and wide gray eyes beneath a tangle of black hair, was white with fatigue. She straightened her hat, and dabbed at her nose with a powder puff. "The crowd's going over to the beach at Tiburon for a picnic supper. Come along?"
"I'd love to!"
"Then run out and get some pickles and things while I finish this story. Mother-of-Pearl! If those club women knew what I really think of most of 'em!" The typewriter keys clacked viciously under her flying fingers.
Smiling, Helen obeyed, and while she explored a delicatessen and loaded her arms with packages, she felt a flutter of pleased anticipation. It would be good to lie on the beach under the stars and listen to more of the curious talk of these girls. "But I must contribute something," she thought. "I must make them like me if I can."
When they assembled at the ferry, however, she found that they were not inclined to talk. Almost silently they waited for the big gates to open, surged with the crowd across the gang-plank and found outside seats where the salt winds swept upon them.