It was his formal "_adieu_." It was the concrete evidence--which is often so distressing, even when the fact is already known--that another chapter was finished. She had hardly finished this letter when a telephone message had come, asking why Yetta had failed to appear at the meeting. It was a small matter, but it seemed important to Mabel. Yetta, the reliable, the dependable, had failed her. Was this a new desertion? The stenographers had made more mistakes that morning than was their general average for a week. At last Yetta came in. Her haggard face shocked Mabel. She forgot her own discomforts in a sudden flood of sympathy. "What's the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Are you sick? Is that why you didn't speak last night?" "No," Yetta replied shortly. It irritated her to think that her heartbreak showed in her face. "I'm not sick. I forgot." "Forgot?" "Yes. I forgot all about it till it was too late to do any good telephoning. I was over in Brooklyn. And even if I hadn't forgot, I couldn't have come. This paper-box strike is a lot more important than that meeting." "Paper-box makers? I did not know they were striking." "If you read _The Clarion_, you'd find out about such things." Yetta tossed her copy on Mabel's desk. The edge of each word had shaved a trifle off the traditional friendship between them. Mabel had not intended to lose her temper. The sight of Yetta had touched her deeply. But it seemed to her--from Yetta's first word--that she was being flouted. _The Clarion_ was the last straw. Below the glaring headlines was Yetta's name at the head of the story. "So, you thought it more important to write an article for _The Clarion_ than to keep an engagement for the League? I'd like to know whether you're working for me or for Isadore Braun." Yetta had not intended to lose her temper, either. But she had been too tired and storm-tossed to be thoughtful. She was flooded by an insolent recklessness. Mabel Train did not need to put on airs, just because she had had a better education. "Neither," she said defiantly. "I'm drawing my salary from the Woman's Trade Union League. If they don't like my work, all they've got to do is to tell me." A stenographer giggled. Yetta walked over to her letter-box and looked over her mail. "Am I to understand that you are offering me your resignation?" Mabel asked. "Oh, no! I was just making a general statement. Any time the Advisory Council want my resignation they can get it by asking." Suddenly Yetta wanted to cry. "What's the use of quarrelling?" she said contritely, coming over to Mabel's desk. "I'm all done up. Haven't had any sleep lately. Cross as a bear. I'll go home--a couple of hours' sleep will do me good. I'm sorry I--" Her eye fell on the envelope of Walter's note. His well-loved handwriting stared at her--jeeringly. What did he have to say to Mabel? The apology died on her lips.