“You bet!  Ain’t it a shame?”

And the group swallowed her up.

Myra wondered why the girl had been arrested, and was surprised at her lack of shame and humiliation.

But she had not much time for thought.  The door opened again, and Sally
Heffer entered, sparkling, neat, eyes clear.

At once cries arose: 

“Here’s Sal!  Hello, Sally Heffer!  Where have you been?” Girls crowded about.  “What’s the news?  Where did you come from?”

Where had Myra heard that name before?

Sally spoke with delicious fastidiousness.

“I’ve been to Vassar.”

“Vassar College?”

“Yes, Vassar College—­raised fifty dollars!”

“Sally’s it, all right!  Say, Sal, how did they treat you?  Stuck up?”

“Not a bit,” said Sally.  “They were ever so good to me.  They’re lovely girls—­kind, sweet, sympathetic.  They wanted to help and they were very respectful, but”—­she threw up her hands—­“oh, they’re ignorant!”

There was a shout of laughter.  Myra was shocked.  A slum girl to speak like this of Vassar students?  She noticed then, with a queer pang, that Sally made for the window group, who at once made a place for her.  Sally had easy access to Joe.

The girl at her side was speaking again.

“You’ve no idea what this strike means.  There’s some rich women interested in it—­they work right with us, hold mass-meetings, march in the streets—­they’re wonderful.  And some of the big labor-leaders and even some of the big lawyers are helping.  There’s one big lawyer been giving all his time.  You see, we’re having trouble with the police.”

“Yes, I see,” said Myra, though she didn’t see at all, and neither did she care.  It seemed to her that she could not wait another instant.  She must either go, or step over to his desk.

“Is he still so busy?” she asked.

“Yes, he is,” said the girl.  “Do you know him personally?”

Myra laughed softly.

“A little.”

“Then you heard how he was hurt?”

“Hurt!” gasped Myra.  Her heart seemed to grow small, and it was pierced by a sharp needle of pain.

“Yes, there was a riot here—­the men came in and smashed everything.”

“And Mr. Blaine? Tell me!” The words came in a blurt.

“Had his arm broken and his head was all bloody.”

Myra felt dizzy, faint.

“But he’s—­better?”

“Oh, he’s all right now.”

“When did this happen?”

“About six weeks ago!”

Six weeks!  That was shortly after the last letter came.  Myra was suffering agony, and her face went very pale.

“How did it happen?” she breathed.

“Oh, he called some strikers traitors, and they came down and broke in.  It’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”

He had suffered, he had been in peril of his life, while she was resting in the peace of the country.  So this was a strike, and in this Joe was concerned.  She looked about the busy room; she noticed anew the sleeping men and the toiling Giotto; and suddenly she was interested.  She was wrenched, as it were, from her world into his.  She felt in the heart of a great tragedy of life.  And all the time she kept saying over and over again: