Mr. Driscoll was the chairman of the building committee of a little independent church whose membership was inclined to regard him somewhat dubiously, notwithstanding the open liking of the pastor. The church was planning a new home, and of late the committee had been holding frequent meetings. In the afternoon of this same Monday there had been a session of the committee; and on leaving the pastor's study Mr. Driscoll had hurried to his office, but Ruth, whom he had pressed into service as the committee's secretary, had stopped to perform a number of errands. When she reached the office she walked through the open hall door—the weather was warm, so it had been wide all day—over the noiseless rug to her desk, and began to remove her hat. Voices came to her from Mr. Driscoll's room, Mr. Driscoll's voice and Mr. Berman's; but their first few sentences, on business matters, passed her ears unheeded, like the thousand noises of the street. But presently, after a little pause, Mr. Berman remarked upon a new topic: "Well, it's the same as settled that the strike will be over in two days."
Almost unconsciously Ruth's ears began to take in the words, though she continued tearing the sheets of stamps, one of her purchases, into strips, preparatory to putting them away.
"Another case in which right prevails," said Mr. Driscoll, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
"Why, yes. We are altogether in the right."
"And so we win." Silence. Then, abruptly, and with more sarcasm: "But how much are we paying Foley?"
Ruth started, as when amid the street's thousand noises one's own name is called out. She gazed intently at the door, which was slightly ajar.
Silence. "What? You know that?"
"Why do you suppose I left the committee?"
"I believed what you said, that you were tired of it."