Ltd. TORONTO To E. M. R. AN OPTIMIST ILLUSTRATIONS THE CRUCIBLE I The girl heard the key rasp in the lock and the door open, but she did not turn. "When I enter the room, rise," directed an even voice. The new inmate obeyed disdainfully. The superintendent, a middle-aged woman of precise bearing and crisp accent, took possession of the one chair, and flattened a note-book across an angular knee. "Is Jean Fanshaw your full name?" she began. "I'm called Jack." "Jack!" The descending pencil paused disapprovingly in mid-air. "You were committed to the refuge as Jean." "Everybody calls me Jack," persisted the girl shortly—"everybody." "Does your mother?" Her face clouded. "No," she admitted; "but my father did. He began it, and I like it. Why isn't it as good as Jean? Both come from John." "It is not womanly," said Miss Blair, as one having authority. "Women of refinement don't adopt men's names." "How about George Eliot?" Jean promptly countered. "And that other George—the French woman?" The superintendent battled to mask her astonishment. Case-hardened by a dozen years' close contact with moral perverts, budding criminals, and the half-insane, she plumed herself that she was not easily taken off her guard. But the unexpected had befallen. The newcomer had given her a sensation, and moreover she knew it. Jean Fanshaw's dark eyes exulted insolently in her victory.
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