Once as she and Joe's mother were snatching a lunch together in the kitchen, the elder woman spoke softly:
"Myra, you're a great girl!" (She persisted in calling Myra a girl, though Myra kept telling her she was nearly thirty-three and old enough to be dignified.) "What will I ever do without you when the strike is over?"
Myra smiled.
"Is it as bad as that?"
"Yes, and getting worse, Myra!"
Myra flushed with joy.
"I'm glad. I'm very glad."
Joe's mother watched her a little.
"How have you been feeling, Myra?"
"I?—" Myra was surprised. "Oh, I'm all right! I haven't time to be unwell."