Hen listened sympathetically, and spoke reassuringly. If her "arguments" followed close in the footsteps of Hugo,--for Hen was surprisingly well-informed in unexpected ways,--it must have been some quality in her, something or other in her underlying "attitude," that invested her words with a new horsepower of solace. And Saltman's best stenographer actually produced an argument that Hugo had altogether passed by. She thought it worth while to point out that these things were not a question of abstract morals at all, but only of changing points of view.... "When Uncle Thornton learned business," declared Hen, "there wasn't a labor law in the country--no law but supply and demand--pay your work-people as little as you could, and squeeze them all they'd stand for. Nobody ever _thought_ of anything different. In those days the Works would have been a model plant--nine-hour day, high wages, no women working at night, no children...." If Cally was not wholly heartened by words like these, she knew where the lack was. And perhaps Hen herself was conscious of something missing. For, having defended her uncle's Works at least as loyally as she honestly could, she gave the talk a more personal tone, skirting those phases of the matter so new-thoughty that they had never even occurred to Hugo Canning. "Cally, are you going to speak to Uncle Thornton about it--about your going there, I mean?" "No, no!" cried Cally, hastily. "How could I? Of course I--realize that that's the way business must be--as you say. What right have I, an ignorant little fool, to set up as papa's critic?" "Not at all--of course," said Hen, giving her hand a little squeeze. "What I--" "You surely can't think that I ought to go and reprove papa for the way he runs his business--do you, Hen?... That I--I'm _responsible_ in any way!" Hen noted her cousin's unexplained nervousness, and it may be she divined a little further. She answered no, not a bit of it. She said she meant to speak to him, not as a business expert, but only as his daughter. It was always a mistake to have secrets in a family, said Hen. Good advice, undoubtedly. Only Hen didn't happen to know the most peculiar circumstances.... The two girls sat side by side on a sofa that sorely needed the ministrations of an upholsterer. Hen was sweet-faced, but habitually pale, usually a little worn. Her eyes and expression saved her from total eclipse in whatever company; otherwise she would have been annihilated now by the juxtaposition of her cousin. Cally's face was framed in an engaging little turn-down hat of gold-brown and yellow, about which was carelessly festooned a long and fine brown veil. Hen, gazing rather wistfully, thought that Cally grew lovelier every year. "I'll tell you, Cally!" she said, suddenly. "Do you know what you ought to do? Talk to V.V. about all this!"