“And why couldn’t you give it to him? Wasn’t he worthy?”
“No, no. No, no!”
“He seemed to me to have such a good face—honest and straightforward.”
“Good gracious! child, what do you know about faces? Do not interfere in business matters; you don’t understand them. Don’t chatter, chatter, chatter. One woman who does that is enough in a family—all a man can stand.”
The daughter became silent; the father pigeonholed some papers, took them out again, rearranged them, and placed them back. He was regaining control over himself. He glanced at his daughter, and saw tears in her eyes.
“There, there, Edna,” he said. “It is all right. I’m a little worried to-night, that’s all. I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble with the men. It is a difficult situation, and I have to deal with it alone. A strike seems inevitable, and one never can tell where it will end.”
“And is he one of the strikers? It seems impossible.”
A look of annoyance swept over her father’s face.
“He? Why the——Edna, you return to a subject with all the persistency of a woman. Yes. He will doubtless go on strike to-morrow with all the rest of the fools. He is a workman, if you want to know; and furthermore, he is going on strike when he doesn’t believe in it—going merely because the others go. He admitted it to me shortly before you came in. So you see how much you are able to read in a man’s face.”
“I shouldn’t have thought it,” said the girl, with a sigh. “Perhaps if you had given him what he wanted he would not go on strike.”