It was the caveman’s plea, the caveman’s tone; and though Jennie knew she couldn’t respond to it in practice, the depths of her being thrilled. "No it isn’t everything; but for a girl like me it’s so much that—" "Why specially for a girl like you?" "Because her ring and her marriage lines are about all she’s got to show. No woman can hold a man for more than—well, just so long; and when his heart’s gone where is she, poor thing, except for the ring and the parson’s name?" "A woman’s heart is as free as a man’s; and when he goes his way—" "She’s left standing in the same old place. We’d all be better off if we felt as free to wander as the men; but most of us are made so that we don’t want to. God! what a life!" she moaned, with a comic grimace to take the pain from the exclamation. "But, tell me, Mr. Wray, what day do you want me to come again?" He asked, as if casually: "Why do you say, ’God! what a life’?" "Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because it’s the only thing _to_ say. Wouldn’t you say it if—" "If what?" "Oh, nothing." "Is it anything to do with me?" "No—not specially. It’s everything—beginning with being born." "I shouldn’t think you had any kick against being born—with a face and a figure like yours." "What good are they to me? My mother used to be—Well, I’m only pretty, and she was a great beauty—but look at her now." "But you don’t have to go the same way." "All women of our class go the same way. It’s awful to spend your whole life toiling and aching and worrying and scraping and paring just on the hither side of starving to death; and yet, if it was only yourself, you could stand it. But when you see that your father and mother did it before you, and that your children will have to do it after you—" "Not in this country, Jennie," he put in, sententiously. "This country gives everyone a chance." She gave another of her comic little moans. "This country is like every other country. It’s a football field. If you’re big enough and tough enough, with skin padded and conscience wadded, and legs to kick hard enough—you get a chance—yes—and one man in a hundred thousand is able to make use of it. But if you’re just a decent, honest sort, willing to do a decent, honest day’s work, your only chance will be to keep at it till you drop." "Aren’t you rather pessimistic?" She ignored this question to pace up and down with little tossings of the hands which Wray found infinitely graceful. "Look at my father. He’s worked like a convict all his life, just to reach the magnificent top-notch of forty-five a week. We’ve been praying to God to give him a raise—" "And perhaps God will." She snapped her fingers. "Like that he will! God has no use for the prayers of the decent, honest sort. He’s on the side of the football tough with the biggest kick in the scrimmage—Ah, what’s the use? I’m born, and I’ve got to make the best of it. Tell me when to come again, and let me go."