Together they looked up the long aisle at the double line of workers in their creams and browns, their fingers deftly placing the blanks in position and removing the finished discs.  Somewhere, unseen, a phonograph started playing a lively tune.

“Where do they get their flowers?” asked one of the guests, noticing that each woman was wearing a rose or a carnation.

“They find them in their locker rooms every morning,” said Mary.  “They usually sing when the phonograph plays,” she added, “but perhaps they feel nervous—­at having company—­”

This was confirmed when they left the room, for as they stood in the hallway first a hum was heard behind them here and there, and soon a mellow toned chorus arose.

“They certainly seem happy,” said one of the visitors.

“They are,” said Mary.  “And, indeed, why shouldn’t they be?  Their work is light and interesting; they are paid well; and more than anything else, I think, they all know they are making something useful—­something tangible—­something they can look upon with satisfaction and pride.”

They ascended a stairway and suddenly the scene changed.  Below, the work had been cast as though in a light staccato key, but here the music for the machinery had a more powerful note.

“These are the oscillating grinders,” said Mary, raising her voice above the skirling symphony.  “It isn’t everybody who can run them.”

She wondered whether her visitors caught the unconscious air of pride which many of the women wore in this department.  At one end of the room a steady stream of rough castings came flowing in, while at the other end an equally steady volume of finished cones went flowing out.  Mary had always liked to watch the oscillators and as she stood there, her guests temporarily forgotten, her eyes filled with the almost human movements of the whirling machines, her ears with the triumphant music of the abrasive wheels biting into the metal, that same unconscious air of pride fell upon her, too, and although she didn’t know it, her glance deepened and her head went up—­quite in the old Spencer manner.

“Is their work fairly accurate?” asked one of the visitors, breaking the spell.

“Let’s go and see,” said Mary, leading the way.

The cones left the grinders upon an endless conveyor which carried them to an inspection room.  Here at long tables were lines of attentive women, each with a set of gauges in front of her.  The visitors stopped behind one of these inspectors just as she picked up a cone to put it through its course of tests.

First she slipped it into a gauge to see if it was too large.  A pointer on a dial before her swung to “O.K.”  Almost without stopping the motion of her hand, she inserted it into another gauge to see if it was too small.  Again the pointer swung to “O.K.”  The third test was to verify the angle of the cone, and for the third time the pointer said “O.K.”  The next moment the cone had been dropped into a box and another was going through the same course.