“Well, he likes you. Doesn’t that a little—just a little—No? Well, then, there’s another reason. He told me he thought you were so plucky that you ought to be helped.” As even this generous sentiment seemed not to melt the lady, “You’d better be nice to him,” said Hildegarde lightly, smiling in her effort to make her companion a little cheerfuller. “He told me he could get you a Nome lot that you could sell by and by for $2000.” “Did he say what I was to pay for it?” “You don’t pay anything, that’s what’s so beautiful.” “Really! Why doesn’t he get it for himself?” “He’ll have one, too. Everybody will who knows—as he does—which are the forfeited ones. The thing is, you must live on the lot. Then you acquire squatter’s sovereignty, and you can sell it for $2000.” “I see; and how much am I to give Mr. Meyer?” “Oh, you _are_ suspicious! He takes a real interest. He wants to ‘put you on to’ some unrecorded mining property he knows about.” “Yes.” “Has he told you?” “He didn’t tell me why a busy man like Meyer should stop to think of me.” “Do you think men never help women?” “Yes, when they see some advantage for themselves.” And then dark histories. The general effect of her experience, the sum total of that knowledge she had brought out of commerce with men, and which was always ready to rise up and menace her—it seemed almost incredible to the sheltered woman. But it was not all narrow, personal repining. Mrs. Locke had theories. She had lived once in a state where women voted. She told stories of going to the polls. In spite of the opposition of male politicians she had once herself held office. “Well, how did you like being a notary public?” “I hated it, but it taught me things.” “Unless my life’s a failure,” she said, with an unconscious loftiness, “I don’t expect to have time to bother about politics.” “You’d feel differently if you didn’t belong to the privileged class.” “Oh, but I don’t. I belong to quite plain people. And we’ve been very poor.” “Have you ever worked for your living?” “No.” “Exactly. Intelligent and able-bodied, and yet you’ve—” “I’ve helped at home.” “You may have saved the wages of a housekeeper or a sewing woman, but you’ve taken what was given you as a dole; and you haven’t a notion what you’d do if the men of your family died or cast you off. Or—_have_ you?” “I never thought about it.” “That’s what I mean. You belong to what they call the privileged class. The ‘privilege’ is to know as little of life as a pet canary.” Hildegarde only laughed. “Oh, yes, you sing very sweetly, and the song says you’ve got all the rights you want. All it means is that through some man living or dead the singer has what material comforts she needs. And the burden of the song is, ‘Look how contented and feminine I am. _I’m_ all right. With the mass of womankind it’s different, but I shan’t bother.’” “You think it’s different with the mass?”