Dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind. She stirred
the fudge more reflectively than ever.

"I wonder if civil wars are started that way," she thought, "one class
setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows.
Suppose--yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a
day, and as much money as the men, and Saturday afternoons and Sundays
off, and all the rest of it.... The world certainly couldn't get along
without women. As Becky says, they would only have to strike--and
strike--and keep on striking--and they could get everything they
wanted--"

Although she didn't suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that
moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it. But all
unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge.

"I've always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with
men," she nodded to herself. "Still, perhaps it's the way of the world,
like ... like children have the measles ... and old folks have to wear
glasses."

She put the pan on the sill to cool and stood there for a time, looking
out at the campus, dreamy-eyed, half occupied with her own thoughts and
half listening to the conversation behind her.

"There oughtn't to be any such thing as private property--"

"Why, Vera, if he kissed you in the dark, you couldn't tell whether he
was a man or a girl--"