Mrs. Guthrie sprang up. The movement, which drew all eyes to her, placed her unintentionally near Vida. “I don’t want Harold and Lucy sacrificed!” she cried.
Her primeval cry made Vida’s hand leap out and press hers for an instant. Mrs. Guthrie wavered between hostility to Vida’s doctrines and the attraction of that wave of sympathy which swept her like a physical force.
“The wives of the button-cutters are facing that to-night,” said Vida, her voice deepening. “Don’t you see why, Mrs. Guthrie? Through the present danger they seek the children’s greater safety.”
“Sit down, Anna,” said Guthrie. “This talk is going to lead to something.”
“It shouldn’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Guthrie. “It must not!” She turned to Vida. “The men who take the first steps—they will lose their positions. My husband’s salary is all we have. For a father of a family—it would be criminal. We can live very well as we are, John, as we always have. The Regents have even appointed a committee to see about raising salaries.”
“Our despotism is benevolent,” said Clark, “—if we’re submissive enough.”
“Our positions are insecure now,” said Guthrie. “To hold them some of us have to sacrifice the best that’s in us.”
“If it’s that or the children——” said Mrs. Guthrie.
“Don’t worry, Anna,” said Guthrie. “If we go into this it will be because we see it will make us more secure, not less.”
Mrs. Guthrie went to the children’s table, leaned over Lucy’s chair, and drew the girl’s head against her breast.