From that time on they worked for hours side by side, he explaining the lights and shadows of each picture with such fullness of comprehension, such a thorough knowledge of history, literature, and art, as to make a deep impression on her mind. Her two years' sojourn in Germany had not been able to efface these art-school recollections. She did not know his name, to say nothing of his social position and still—she could not forget—even now she thought of him—even now his picture thrust itself between her and her fiance.
Involuntarily she sprang to her feet to escape those torturing thoughts. Her attention was caught by the sound of low sobbing. She was able to observe through a crack in the partition the distress of poor Mrs. Martin, as the clerk refused her admittance into the manufacturer's private office.
Broken with discouragement and suffering, Mrs. Martin had scarcely closed the door behind her when Lucy entered the office.
"Who is that sobbing woman?" she asked hastily of the clerk.
"That woman? She is the wife of the former foreman, whom—the strikers—handled somewhat roughly," he answered, hesitatingly, dropping his malicious eyes.
"She wished to speak to papa, didn't she? Why didn't you let her in?" she demanded, frowning.
"Because I had strict orders not to let anyone in today," he replied shortly, suppressing his rebellious feelings.
"Then I must hurry after the poor woman and ask her if there is anything I can do for her," murmured Lucy with quick decision, taking up her hat and cape from an adjoining room.
"I suppose the distinguished Mr. Martin's last dollar's gone," sneered the clerk after her in an Irish accent.