And so could the farmers.
Imagine the farmers striking for eight hours a day, and no work Sundays and holidays, and every Saturday afternoon off...." Dimly, vaguely, a troubled picture took shape in her mind.

She stirred the fudge more reflectively than ever.
"I wonder if civil wars are started that way," she thought, "one class setting out to show its power over another and gradually coming to blows.
Suppose--yes, suppose the women were to go on strike for eight hours a day, and as much money as the men, and Saturday afternoons and Sundays off, and all the rest of it....

The world certainly couldn't get along without women.

As Becky says, they would only have to strike--and strike--and keep on striking--and they could get everything they wanted--" Although she didn't suspect it, she was so close to her destiny at that moment that she could have reached out her hand and touched it.

But all unconsciously she continued to stir the fudge.
"I've always thought that women have a poor time of it compared with men," she nodded to herself.