Ellen was thankful that Robert Lloyd had not spoken to her in the factory, and yet she was cut to the quick by it. It fulfilled her anticipations to the letter. "I was right," she said to herself; "he can never think of me again. He is showing it." Somehow, after he had passed, her enthusiasm, born of a strong imagination, and her breadth of nature failed her somewhat. The individual began to press too closely upon the aggregate. Suddenly Ellen Brewster and her own heartache and longing came to the front. She had put herself out of his life as completely as if she had gone to another planet. Still, feeling this, she realized no degradation of herself as a cause of it. She realized that from his point of view she had gone into a valley, but from hers she was rather on an opposite height. She on the height of labor, of skilled handiwork, which is the manifestation in action of brain-work, he on the height of pure brain-work unpressed by physical action. At noon, when she was eating her dinner with Abby and Maria, Abby turned to her and inquired if young Mr. Lloyd had spoken to her when he came through the room. "No, he didn't," replied Ellen. Abby said nothing, but she compressed her lips and gave her head a hard jerk. A girl who ran a machine next to Abby's came up, munching a large piece of pie, taking clean semicircular bites with her large, white teeth. "Say," she said, "did you see the young boss's new suit? Got up fine, wasn't he?" "I'd like to see him working where I be for an hour," said a young fellow, strolling up, dipping into his dinner-bag. He was black and greasy as to face and hands and clothing. "Guess his light pants and vest would look rather different," said he, and everybody laughed except the Atkins girls and Ellen. "I guess he washed his hands, anyway, before he ate his dinner," said Abby, sharply, looking at the young man's hands with meaning. The young fellow colored, though he laughed. "There ain't a knife in this shop so sharp as some women's tongues," said he. "I pity the man that gets you." "There won't be any man get me," retorted Abby. "I've seen all I want to see of men, working with 'em every day." "Mebbe they have of you," called back the young fellow, going away. "The saucy thing!" said the girl who stitched next to Abby. "There isn't any excuse for a man's eating his dinner with hands like that," said Abby. "It's worse to poison yourself with your own dirt than with other folks'. It hurts your own self more." "He ain't worth minding," said the girl. "Do you suppose I do mind him?" returned Abby. Maria looked at her meaningly. The young man, whose name was Edison Bartlett, had once tried to court Abby, but neither she nor Maria had ever told of it. "His clothes were a pearl gray," said the girl at the stitching-machine, reverting to the original subject. "Good gracious, who cares what color they were?" cried Abby, impatiently.