That Richard North should find his time hang somewhat on hand, was only natural; he, the hitherto busy man, who had often wished the day's hours doubled, for the work he had to do in it. Richard could afford to make morning calls on his friends now, and he had come strolling to Mrs. Cumberland's.
They sat down: Arthur in the remotest chair he could find from Ellen Adair. She had taken up a bit of light work, and her fairy fingers were deftly plying its threads. Richard sat near Ellen, facing Mrs. Cumberland. He could not help thinking how lovely Ellen Adair was: the fact had never struck him more forcibly than to-day.
"How is the strike getting on, Richard?"
Mrs. Cumberland laid down her newspaper to ask the question. No other theme bore so much present interest in Dallory. From the time that North and Gass first established the works, things had gone on with uninterrupted smoothness, peace and plenty reigning on all sides. No wonder this startling change seemed as a revolution.
"It is still going on," replied Richard. "How the men are getting on, I don't like to think about. The wrong way, of course."
"Your proposition, to meet them half-way, was rejected, I hear."
"It was."
"What do they expect to come to?"
"To fortune, I suppose," returned Richard. "To refuse work and not expect a fortune, must be rather a mistake. A poor look-out at the best."
"But, according to the newspapers, Richard, one-half the working-classes in the country are out on strike. Do you believe it?"