They had nearly torn her clothes off before E. Eliot was among them. She sprang up on the chair and shouted:
"Girls—here, hold on a minute."
There was a hush. Some one called out: "It's Miss E. Eliot." "Listen a minute. Don't waste your time getting mad at this girl. She's a friend of mine. And you may not believe me, but she means all right."
"What's she pussyfootin' in here for?"
"Don't you know the story of the man from Pittsburgh who died and went on?" cried E. Eliot. "Some kindly spirit showed him round the place, and the newcomer said: 'Well, I don't think heaven's got anything on Pittsburgh.' 'This isn't heaven!' said the spirit."
There was a second's pause, and then the laugh came.
"Now, this girl has just waked up to the fact that Whitewater isn't heaven, and she thought you'd like to hear the news! I'll take the poor lamb home, put cracked ice on her head and let her sleep it off."
They laughed again.
"Go to it," said the erstwhile spokeswoman for the working girls.
E. Eliot called them a cheery good-night. The factory girls drifted away, in little groups, leaving Geneviève, bedraggled and hysterical, clinging to her rescuer.