"That idea that they've got to marry the man they love. They've grown to think--unconsciously almost--that to give him love, blinded, is a fair exchange for his provision of a home. They'll never win their independence that way." "I don't want my independence," said Sally. "Then why do you work for it?" asked Janet. "Because I didn't want to be a clog on my own people--because I wanted to be free to answer to myself." "Then why don't you carry that idea further? Why make yourself free, simply to tie yourself up again at the first chance you get?" "I don't call it tying myself up to marry a man I'm in love with and who loves me. That's happiness. I know I shall be perfectly happy." Janet lifted her head and in a thoroughly professional manner blew a long, thin stream of smoke from between her lips. "How long do you think that happiness is going to last?" she asked. "I don't know." "You chance it?" "Yes." "And then when the end comes you have not even got yourself to fall back upon. You're done for--sucked dry. You fall to pieces because you've sold your independence." Sally left the dressing-table and crossed to Janet's bed. Sitting there, she put her bare arms on Janet's shoulders. "It's no good your talking like that," she said gently. "You think that way, and right or wrong I think the other. If I loved a man and he loved me, I'd willingly sell my independence, willingly do anything for him." "Supposing he wasn't going to marry you?" said Janet, imperturbably. "Then he wouldn't love me." "Oh yes; he might." "Then I don't know what you mean." Janet stood up from the bed. "I can smell bloaters for supper," she said; "if you don't hurry up, Mr. Hewson 'll get the best one. I can see Mrs. Hewson picking it out for him. Come on. Put a blouse on. There's a woman who's sold her independence. She doesn't get much for it, as far as I can see. Come on. I'm going to talk to Mr. Arthur about art to-night." CHAPTER VII It is one thing to say you could never marry a man, and it is another thing to refuse him when he asks you. That very afternoon Mr. Arthur had received the intimation at his bank that he was shortly to be made a cashier. He glowed with the prospect. His conversation that evening was of the brightest. The poisoned shafts of Miss Hallard's satire met the armoured resistance of his high spirits. They fell--pointless and unavailing--from his unbounded faith in himself. A man who, after a comparatively few years' service in a bank, is deemed fitted for the responsible duties of a cashier, is qualified to express an opinion, even on art. Mr. Arthur expressed many. "Don't see how you can say a thing's artistic if you don't like it," he declared. "I think you're quite right, Mr. Arthur," said Mrs. Hewson. "If I like a thing--like that picture in one of the Christmas Annuals--I always say, 'Now I call that artistic,' don't I, Ern?" Her husband nodded with his mouth full of the best bloater.