As evening drew on the girl became more and more anxious, and impatiently awaited the hour that was to take her to London. She half expected a telegram from her father, but as none came she knew the situation had not changed for the better. Shortly after six o’clock her hansom drove into the yard of the works; the gatekeeper was evidently on the watch for her, and had the gates open, closing them after her. The silent, deserted air of the huge place had a most depressing influence on her as she mounted the stairs that led to her father’s office. He was standing at his desk as she entered, entirely alone, and looked round absent-mindedly when he heard the door open. “Well, my girl,” he said, “you have come to help pack, after all.” “If there must be packing, I am ready to help, father.” “I’m afraid that’s all there’s left to do, dear. But we’re not going to show the white feather, are we? I’ve just been planning a lovely little tour on the Continent for you and me, where we shall forget, for a time, that there is such an ugly thing as a strike in the whole world. You’ll be a princess, and I’ll be the old dethroned king; they always went to the Continent, you know, after a defeat.” Sartwell’s attempt at banter was a gloomy failure, and he avoided his daughter’s eye, pretending to be sorting out some papers. She saw how hard hit he was, and the tears came into her eyes. “Is the directors’ meeting over?” she asked at last. “No. They are in there yet, arranging the terms of surrender--or hardly that, for there are no terms. They simply give the men all they ask--which, of course, they might have done a month ago, and saved all this bother. I knew how it would be when they heard about the ship lying unloaded in Australia. There was not an ounce of fight left in them, and I felt sure a blow dealt so far away would appeal to what little imagination any of them has. It seems to them decisive, but of course it is nothing of the kind. It is merely a theatrical bit of by-play that should have no bearing on the result. But there is little use in kicking against fate. They are at this moment engaged in writing out their letter of capitulation--as if it made any difference how you worded an acknowledgment of defeat and a surrender of your interests to a lot of ignorant, beer-drinking boors who don’t----but what is the use of cursing? Another week of this indecision would have demoralized me; in fact, I think it has done so already, for I don’t generally growl.” “Will you come home with me, father?”