unseeingly upon the handbill folded printed side out and on top
of the contents of the open drawer. She happened to see two
capital letters-- S. G.--in a line by themselves at the end of
the print. She repeated them mechanically several times--``S. G.
--S. G.--S. G.''--then her hands fell from her hair upon the
handbill. She settled herself to read in earnest.

``Selma Gordon,'' she said. ``That's different.''

She would have had some difficulty in explaining to herself why
it was ``different.'' She read closely, concentratedly now. She
tried to read in an attitude of unfriendly criticism, but she
could not. A dozen lines, and the clear, earnest, honest
sentences had taken hold of her. How sensible the statements
were, and how obviously true. Why, it wasn't the writing of an
``anarchistic crank'' at all--on the contrary, the writer was if
anything more excusing toward the men who were giving the drivers
and motormen a dollar and ten cents a day for fourteen hours'
work--``fourteen hours!'' cried Jane, her cheeks burning--yes,
Selma Gordon was more tolerant of the owners of the street car
line than Jane herself would have been.

When Jane had read, she gazed at the print with sad envy in her
eyes. ``Selma Gordon can think--and she can write, too,'' said
she half aloud. ``I want to know her--too.''

That ``too'' was the first admission to herself of a curiously
intense desire to meet Victor Dorn.

``Oh, to be in earnest about something! To have a real interest!