The stenographers had made more mistakes that morning than was their general average for a week.
At last Yetta came in. Her haggard face shocked Mabel. She forgot her own discomforts in a sudden flood of sympathy.
"What's the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Are you sick? Is that why you didn't speak last night?"
"No," Yetta replied shortly. It irritated her to think that her heartbreak showed in her face. "I'm not sick. I forgot."
"Forgot?"
"Yes. I forgot all about it till it was too late to do any good telephoning. I was over in Brooklyn. And even if I hadn't forgot, I couldn't have come. This paper-box strike is a lot more important than that meeting."
"Paper-box makers? I did not know they were striking."
"If you read The Clarion, you'd find out about such things."
Yetta tossed her copy on Mabel's desk. The edge of each word had shaved a trifle off the traditional friendship between them. Mabel had not intended to lose her temper. The sight of Yetta had touched her deeply. But it seemed to her—from Yetta's first word—that she was being flouted. The Clarion was the last straw. Below the glaring headlines was Yetta's name at the head of the story.
"So, you thought it more important to write an article for The Clarion than to keep an engagement for the League? I'd like to know whether you're working for me or for Isadore Braun."