_"Is that the Works?"_ breathed the daughter of the Works, with a sort
of stunned incredulity.
In her utter bewilderment, she was confused into glancing at Jack
Dalhousie's friend, who stood silent upon the sidewalk, two yards away.
Thus she surprised his translucent eyes fixed upon her with a look which
she had seen there on two other remembered occasions. The eager
confidence had, indeed, faded from his face, but not as she had designed
that it should fade. The man had the grace to look away at once, seeming
embarrassed: but in one glance she saw that he had read to the heart of
what she felt, thus discovering the real birthplace of her Family. And
his eyes had said to her, quite plainly, that of course he would not on
any account ask her to stop now; and that, on the whole, God must pity
her again for a poor little thing who did not even know where and how
her own father made his money....
She could have cried for the angry mortification of this moment, but
perhaps that confrontation steadied her as nothing else could have done.
She said hurriedly, but with some degree of naturalness:
"Well--it certainly isn't pretty--Hen! But I don't suppose factories
usually are. You know, I--haven't happened to be down here for a good
many years...."
And then, catching the driver's eye, she nodded sharply to him to go on.
In the cross-sweep of larger troubles, dismissed bunchers were naturally
forgotten. The car started with a little jump.
"Why, aren't you going to _stop_?"
It was Hen Cooney who thus sounded the note of rather indignant
surprise, not the man from the slums, who, understanding, stood tall and
silent, lifting his old derby....