How was it possible to live for hours at a time in this bedlam without losing presence of mind and thrusting hand or body in the wrong place, or becoming deaf?  She had never before realized what mill work meant, though she had read of the accidents.  But these people—­even the children—­seemed oblivious to the din and the danger, intent on their tasks, unconscious of the presence of a visitor, save occasionally when she caught a swift glance from a woman or girl a glance, perhaps, of envy or even of hostility.  The dark, foreign faces glowed, and instantly grew dull again, and then she was aware of lurking terrors, despite her exaltation, her sense now of belonging to another world, a world somehow associated with Ditmar.  Was it not he who had lifted her farther above all this?  Was it not by grace of her association with him she was there, a spectator of the toil beneath?  Yet the terror persisted.  She, presently, would step out of the noise, the oppressive moist heat of the drawing and spinning rooms, the constant, remorseless menace of whirling wheels and cogs and belts.  But they?...  She drew closer to Caldwell’s side.

“I never knew—­” she said.  “It must be hard to work here.”

He smiled at her, reassuringly.

“Oh, they don’t mind it,” he replied.  “It’s like a health resort compared to the conditions most of them live in at home.  Why, there’s plenty of ventilation here, and you’ve got to have a certain amount of heat and moisture, because when cotton is cold and dry it can’t be drawn or spin, and when it’s hot and dry the electricity is troublesome.  If you think this moisture is bad you ought to see a mill with the old vapour-pot system with the steam shooting out into the room.  Look here!” He led Janet to the apparatus in which the pure air is forced through wet cloths, removing the dust, explaining how the ventilation and humidity were regulated automatically, how the temperature of the room was controlled by a thermostat.

“There isn’t an agent in the country who’s more concerned about the welfare of his operatives than Mr. Ditmar.  He’s made a study of it, he’s spent thousands of dollars, and as soon as these machines became practical he put ’em in.  The other day when I was going through the room one of these shuttles flew off, as they sometimes do when the looms are running at high speed.  A woman was pretty badly hurt.  Ditmar came right down.”

“He really cares about them,” said Janet.  She liked Caldwell’s praise of Ditmar, yet she spoke a little doubtfully.

“Of course he cares.  But it’s common sense to make ’em as comfortable and happy as possible—­isn’t it?  He won’t stand for being held up, and he’d be stiff enough if it came to a strike.  I don’t blame him for that.  Do you?”

Janet was wondering how ruthless Ditmar could be if his will were crossed....  They had left the room with its noise and heat behind them and were descending the worn, oaken treads of the spiral stairway of a neighbouring tower.  Janet shivered a little, and her face seemed almost feverish as she turned to Caldwell and thanked him.