“John?”

He woke from his dream, and forced a smile to his lips.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I’m not hungry, dear.”

“You haven’t spoken half a dozen words since you came home.”

“Haven’t I?  I must have been thinking.”

“About the shops?” laying her hand on his and pressing it strongly.

“Yes.  I’m afraid, heart o’ mine, that it’s all over.  If they do not strike now, they will later on; if not on this pretext, on some other.”

“Why not let him go, John?”

“No.”  His jaws hardened.  “It isn’t a question of his going or staying; it is simply a question of who is master, the employed or the employer.  The men say it’s the principle of the thing; it shall be fought out on those grounds.  I’m going down to the club to-night with Dick.  I feel the need of getting out and breathing.  Dick’s not the best company just now, but he’ll understand what I need.  Poor devil! he’s got his hands full, too.”

She understood his mood, and offered no objection.  She raised his hand and brushed it with her lips.

“I love you, John.”

He smiled gratefully.

“You go over to mother’s for the evening, and I’ll drop in on the way home and pick you up.”

Patty was in the music-room, so Mrs. Jack did not disturb her, but started at her basket-work.  Mrs. Bennington read till eight, and retired.  Patty played all the melancholy music she could think of.  When love first makes its entrance into the human heart, there is neither joy nor gladness nor gaiety.  On the contrary, there is a vast shadow of melancholy, a painful sadness, doubt and cross-purpose, boldness at one moment and timidity at the next, a longing for solitude.  Music and painting and poetry, these arts that only attracted, now engage.

So Patty played.

Sometimes Mrs. Jack looked up from her work, wondering.  She had never heard Patty play so many haunting, dismal compositions.  At nine the telephone rang, and she dropped her work instantly, thinking the call might be from John.  Ah, if the men would only listen to reason!

“Hello!”

“Is Mrs. Bennington at home?” asked a voice, unfamiliar to her ears.

“There are two.  Which one do you wish?”

“Mrs. John Bennington.”

“This is Mrs. John Bennington speaking.  What is it?”

There was a pause.

“I have something very important to communicate to you.  In the first place, you must use your influence in making Mr. Warrington withdraw his name as a candidate for nomination.”

“Who is this speaking?” she asked sharply.

“Mr. McQuade.”

The receiver nearly fell from her hand.  McQuade?  What in the world—­

“Did you get the name?”

“Yes.  But I fail to understand what you are talking about.  I warn you that I shall ring off immediately.”