“Pooh!  Strike!” exclaimed Ditmar with contemptuous violence.  “Do you believe that?  You’re always borrowing trouble, you are.  They may have a strike at one mill, the Clarendon.  I hope they do, I hope Holster gets it in the neck—­he don’t know how to run a mill anyway.  We won’t have any strike, our people understand when they’re well off, they’ve got all the work they can do, they’re sending fortunes back to the old country or piling them up in the banks.  It’s all bluff.”

“There was a meeting of the English branch of the I. W. W. last night.  A committee was appointed,” said Orcutt, who as usual took a gloomy satisfaction in the prospect of disaster.

“The I. W. W.!  My God, Orcutt, don’t you know enough not to come in here wasting my time talking about the I. W. W.?  Those anarchists haven’t got any organization.  Can’t you get that through your head?”

“All right,” replied Orcutt, and marched off.  Janet felt rather sorry for him, though she had to admit that his manner was exasperating.  But Ditmar’s anger, instead of cooling, increased:  it all seemed directed against the unfortunate superintendent.

“Would you believe that a man who’s been in this mill twenty-five years could be such a fool?” he demanded.  “The I. W. W.!  Why not the Ku Klux?  He must think I haven’t anything to do but chin.  I don’t know why I keep him here, sometimes I think he’ll drive me crazy.”

His eyes seemed to have grown small and red, as was always the case when his temper got the better of him.  Janet did not reply, but sat with her pencil poised over her book.

“Let’s see, where was I?” he asked.  “I can’t finish that letter now.  Go out and do the others.”

Mundane experience, like a badly mixed cake, has a tendency to run in streaks, and on the day following the incident related above Janet’s heart was heavy.  Ditmar betrayed an increased shortness of temper and preoccupation; and the consciousness that her love had lent her a clairvoyant power to trace the source of his humours though these were often hidden from or unacknowledged by himself—­was in this instance small consolation.  She saw clearly enough that the apprehensions expressed by Mr. Orcutt, whom he had since denounced as an idiotic old woman, had made an impression, aroused in him the ever-abiding concern for the mill which was his life’s passion and which had been but temporarily displaced by his infatuation with her.  That other passion was paramount.  What was she beside it?  Would he hesitate for a moment to sacrifice her if it came to a choice between them?  The tempestuousness of these thoughts, when they took possession of her, hinting as they did of possibilities in her nature hitherto unguessed and unrevealed, astonished and frightened her; she sought to thrust them away, to reassure herself that his concern for the successful delivery of the Bradlaugh order was natural.  During the morning, in the intervals between interviews