Though she told herself emphatically again that she was not falling in love with O’Hara, though she was perfectly faithful in her heart to the memory of Arthur, still she was vividly aware with every drop of her blood, with every beat of her pulses, of the man at her side.  And through her magnetic sense of his nearness there flowed to her presently a deeper and clearer perception of the multitudinous movements of life which surrounded her—­of the variable darkness out of which lights flashed and gigantic spectacular outlines loomed against a dim background of sky, of the vague shapes stirring, swarming, creating there in the darkness, and always of the pitiless, insatiable hunger from which the city had sprung.  For the first time, flowing like a current from the mind of the man beside her, there came to her an understanding of her own share in the common progress of life—­for the first time she felt herself to be not merely a woman who lived in a city, but an integral part of that city, one cell among closely packed millions of cells.  Something of the responsibility she felt for her own children seemed to spread out and cover the city lying there in its dimness and mystery.

“But I don’t like to think of your ever having worried,” he repeated.

“Oh, it’s over now,” she returned, severely matter-of-fact.  “It took me years to make my way, but I’ve made it at last, and I may settle down to a comfortable middle-age without the dread of the poorhouse to spur me into activity.  My business is doing very well; our custom has doubled in the last two or three years.”

“But wasn’t it a tough pull at one time?”

“It was hard; but what isn’t?  Of course, when I was obliged to work from nine till six and then come home to cook the children’s dinner and teach them their lessons, I used to be tired out by the end of the day—­but that lasted only a few years:  five or six at the most—­and now I can afford to let Fanny wear imported gowns when she goes out to parties.”

Though she spoke gaily, making a jest of her struggle, she saw the gravity of his face deepen until his features looked almost wooden.

“And through it all you kept something that so many other women seem to lose when they work for a living,” he said.  “You’ve kept your—­your charm.”

Again she found herself on the point of exclaiming frankly:  “heaven knows I’ve tried to!”—­and again, checking herself, she proceeded cautiously:  “I’ve never understood why charm should be merely a hothouse flower.”

“I suppose it does depend a good deal upon a sunny temper,” he rejoined in his blindness.

They had reached the gate, and stopping him when he would have entered, she said with the directness of a man:  “So we’re friends, and you’re coming to see me?”

“Yes, I’m coming,” he replied gravely.  Then, standing beside the gate, he watched her while she went up the walk and opened the door with her key.