... Somebody’s shoulder. She wasn’t safe to be trusted right now, yet she couldn’t pull away. If she ever got upstairs--even for a minute in her own little place, before the mirror that waved, she would see it all clearly, but here and now she didn’t want to see clearly. She wanted to give up and rest. She wanted what he wanted--wanted to give him what he wanted, which was the tiredest, most hopeless girl in New York to-night. She was dying of all its strains and failures and rigidities and fightings, and he wanted to take the load. They were standing under the hanging lamp in his room. The light was white; his face was white. It was leaner than ever before, more of a man in it, more of a boy in it. His will was working furiously to make him speak. He held her right hand up between them. “It’s about your hands, Pidge, about the factory. Listen, you make me feel like a tout or a sot--as if you were out killing yourself to support me. I’ve been home two hours and you just coming in.” “There’s half a million girls in New York--just coming in.” “I know. We’ll get to them later, but now there’s only one--only one Pidge. I want her home to stay. I want to make a home for her. Why, Pidge, I’ll let you alone, if you just let me do that----” “I believe you would.” She was looking up at him hard. She didn’t fully understand, but the boyish cleanliness of him struck her fully that moment. The power of his will which she felt was mainly the fierceness of his decision to speak. It wasn’t the burn of terrible hunger for her. He was young as a playmate: that’s what shook her now. He wanted to fix her place, to let her hands soften again, wanted to let her rest and breathe--not what the other girls laughed about. “Why, Pidge, I’ve got to take care of you. I’ve got to straighten you out--if it’s only to marry you and go away.” Something in her heart cracked like a mirror, and a sob broke out of her. It was as if a car that had been running along by itself suddenly left the road and went into a cliff--a warm, kind cliff. Somebody’s shoulder, and she was sobbing: “I told you I was so tired! I told you I wasn’t safe----” “Ah, little Pidge----” he was patting her arm and pressing her close. It had come. This was it. It _was_ rest. The other girls knew. The awful cold ache was broken--warmth of life pouring out of her--heavenly ease in the flood of tears, and something of the dearness of dreams was in his passion, not for her--but to do something for her. The first whip stroke fell, when Pidge remembered how she looked when she cried. But if she could keep her face covered! She didn’t stir.... Was this the fullness of days? All the consummate essences of ease, he brought--no hunger, no dirt--and really she had fought long and hard. “... Everything you want, Pidge,” he was whispering. “I’ll take you to my mother. She’s a regular sport, Pidge----” “She’d have to be,” came from the incorrigible heart in his arms, but not aloud.