As I went I scanned each face I saw. Consciously
or subconsciously I had been hoping for days that I would see a face
which ever haunts me, a face I wanted to forget and could not forget.
Everywhere I go, in factories or mills or shops or homes; in the
streets, and at my windows, I am always wondering if I shall see her.
She was very unhappy. Who is she? Why was Selwyn with her? It is
my last thought at night, my first in the morning.
Yesterday I was at the box-factory where Jimmy Gibbons works. It is
his last week there. On the fifteenth he starts again to school.
Knowing the president of the company well, I asked that Jimmy should
be my guide through the various departments, and permission was
given. I wish Jimmy were mine.
"Miss High-Spy 'ain't got any love for on-lookers, and we'd better
not stay in here long." Jimmy's voice was cautious, but his eyes
merry, and, glancing in the direction of the sour and snappy person
watching each movement of each worker, I agreed with him that it was
not well to linger. The room was big and bare, its benches filled
with white-faced workers, and the autocrat who presided over it
seemed unconscious of its stifling, steamy heat and sickening smells
of glue and paste.
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