Part 28 (1/2)

The following Sunday, when she put on her coat, she found a souvenir of that visit in her pocket, a soiled reminder of poverty and toil. She remembered picking it up and noting that it was the factory pa.s.s of one Marya Slavonsky. She had intended to leave it with some one in the district, but evidently in the excitement of her enforced exit she had thrust it into her pocket.

This Marya worked in the factories. She was one of that grimy army Genevieve had seen coming out of the factory gate, and she went home to that pen which Cousin Alys provided. Marya was a girl of Genevieve's own age, perhaps, while she, Genevieve, had this comfortable home, and George! She had been blind, selfish, but she would make up for it, she _would_! She would make a study of the needs of such people; she would go among them like St. Agatha, scattering alms and wisdom. George might have his work; she had found hers! She would begin with the factory girls. She would waken them to what had so lately dawned on her. How could she manage it? The rules of admission in the munition factories were very strict.

Then again her eye fell upon the soiled card and a great idea was born in her brain. Dressed as a factory girl, she would use Marya's card to get her into the circle of these new-found sisters. She would see how and where they worked. She would report it all to the Forum and to George. She could be of use to George at last.

She remembered Betty's statement that at midnight in the factories the women and girls had an hour off. That was the time she chose, with true dramatic instinct.

She rummaged in the attic for an hour, getting her costume ready. She decided on an old black suit and a shawl which had belonged to her mother. She carried these garments to her bedroom and hid them there.

Then, with Machiavellian finesse, she laid her plans.

She would slip out of bed at half-past eleven o'clock, taking care not to waken George, and she would dress and leave the house by the side door. By walking fast she could reach by midnight the factory to which she had admission.

It annoyed her considerably to have George announce at luncheon that he had a political dinner on for the evening and probably would not be home before midnight. He grumbled a little over the dinner. ”The campaign,”

he said, ”really ended yesterday. But Doolittle thought it was wise to have a last round-up of the business men, and give them a final speech.”

Genevieve acquiesced with a sympathetic murmur, but she was disappointed. Merely to walk calmly out of the house at eleven o'clock lessened the excitement. However, she decided upon leaving George a note explaining that she had gone to spend the night with Betty Sheridan.

She looked forward to the long afternoon with impatience. Cousin Emelene was taking her nap. Mrs. Brewster-Smith left immediately after lunch to make a call on one of her few women friends. Genevieve tried to get Betty on the telephone, but she was not at home.

It was with a thrill of pleasure that she saw E. Eliot coming up the walk to the door. She hurried downstairs just as the maid explained that Mrs. Brewster-Smith was not at home.

”Oh, won't you come in and see me for a moment, Miss Eliot?” Genevieve begged. ”I do so want to talk to you.”

E. Eliot hesitated. ”The truth is, I am fearfully busy today, even though it's Sunday. I wanted to get five minutes with Mrs.

Brewster-Smith about those cottages--” she began.

Genevieve laid a detaining hand on her arm and led her into the living-room.

”She's hopeless! I can hardly bear to have her in my house after the way she acted about those fearful places.”

”Well, all that district is the limit, of course. She isn't the only landlord.”

”But she didn't _see_ those people.” ”She's human, I guess--didn't want to see disturbing things.”

”I would have torn down those cottages with my own hands!” burst forth Genevieve.

E. Eliot stared. ”No one likes her income cut down, you know,” she palliated.

”Income! What is that to human decencies?” cried the newly awakened apostle.

”Your husband doesn't entirely agree with you in some of these matters, I suppose.”

”Oh, yes he does, in his heart! But there's something about politics that won't let you come right out and say what you think.”

”Not after you've come right out once and said the wrong thing,” laughed E. Eliot. ”I'm afraid you will have to use your indirect influence on him, Mrs. Remington.”

Genevieve threw her cards on the table.

”Miss Eliot, I am just beginning to see how much there is for women to do in the world. I want to do something big--the sort of thing you and Betty Sheridan are doing--to rouse women. What can I do?” E. Eliot scrutinized the ardent young face with amiable amus.e.m.e.nt.