“His arm was broken! his head bloody! and I wasn’t here!  I wasn’t at his side!”

And she had thought in her country isolation that life in the city wasn’t real.  What a moment that must have been when Joe faced the rioters—­when they rushed upon him—­when he might have been killed!  And instead of deterring him from his work, here he was in the thick of it, braving, possibly, unspeakable dangers.  Then, glancing about, it seemed to her that these girls and men were a part of his drama; he gave them a new reality.  This was life, pulsing, immediate, tragic.  She must go to him—­she mustn’t delay longer.

She took a few steps forward, and at almost the same moment the girls about Joe left him, scattering about the room.  Then she saw him.  And what a spectacle!  He was in his shirt-sleeves, his hair was more tousled than ever, and his face was gray—­the most tragic face she had ever seen—­gray, sunken, melancholy, worn, as if he bore the burden of the world.  But in one hand he held a pen, and in the other—­a ham sandwich.  It was a big sandwich, and every few moments he took a big bite, as he scratched on.  Myra’s heart was wrung with love and pity, with remorse and fondness, and mainly with the tragi-comedy of his face and the sandwich.

She stood over him a moment, breathless, panting, her throat full of blood, it seemed.  Then she stooped a little and whispered: 

“Joe.”

He wheeled round; he looked up; his gray face seemed to grow grayer; his lips parted—­he was more than amazed.  He was torn away, as it were, from all business of life.

“Why,” he said under his breath, “it’s you, Myra!”

“Yes”—­tears stood in her eyes—­“it’s I.”

He surveyed her up and down, and then their eyes met.  He ran his hand through his hair.

“You—­you—­” he murmured.  “And how well you look, how strong, how fresh!  Sit down! sit down!”

She took the seat, trembling.  She leaned forward.

“But you—­you are killing yourself, Joe.”

He smiled sadly.

“It’s serious business, Myra.”

She gazed at him, and spoke hard.

“Is there no end to it?  Aren’t you going to rest, ever?”

“End?  No end now.  The strike must be won.”

He was trying to pull himself together.  He gave a short laugh; he sat up.

“So you’re back from the country.”

“Yes, I’m back.”

“To stay?”

“To stay.”

“You’re cured, then?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “cured of many things.  I like the city better than I thought!”

He gave her a sharp look.

“So!” Then his voice came with utter weariness:  “Well, the city’s a queer place, Myra.  Things happen here.”

Somehow she felt that he was standing her off.  Something had crept in between them, some barrier, some wall.  He had already emerged from the shock of the meeting.  What if there were things in his life far more important than this meeting?  Myra tried to be brave.