nates, the girls who
packed soap down in the works expected to be "fired." After a visitation
from Mr. Pemberton and three raging memoes within fifteen minutes, Mr.
S. Herbert Ross retreated toward the Lafayette Cafe, and Una was left to
face Mr. Pemberton's bear-like growls on his next appearance.

When he did appear he seemed to hold her responsible for all the world's
long sadness. Meanwhile the printer was telephoning for Mr. Ross's O. K.
on copy, the engravers wanted to know where the devil was that
color-proof, the advertising agency sarcastically indicated that it was
difficult for them to insert an advertisement before they received the
order, and a girl from the cashier's office came nagging in about a bill
for India ink.

The memoes began to get the range of her desk again, and Mr. Pemberton's
voice could be heard in a distant part of the office, approaching,
menacing, all-pervading.

Una fled. She ran to a wash-room, locked the door, leaned panting
against it, as though detectives were pursuing her. She was safe for a
moment. They might miss her, but she was insulated from demands of,
"Where's Ross, Miss Golden? Well, why _don't_ you know where he is?"
from telephone calls, and from memoes whose polite "please" was a gloved
threat.

But even to this refuge the familiar sound of the office penetrated--the
whirr which usually sounded as a homogeneous murmur, but which, in her
acute sensitiveness, she now analyzed into the voices of different
typewriters--one flat, rapid, staccato; one a steady, dull rattle. The
"zzzzz" of typewriter-carriages being shoved back. The roll of closing
elevator doors, and the rumble of the ascending elevator. The long burr
of an unanswered telephone at a desk, again and again; and at last an
angry "Well! Hello? Yes, yes; this 's Mr. Jones. What-duh-yuh want?"
Voices mingled; a shout for Mr. Brown; the hall-attendant yelping: "Miss
Golden! Where's Miss Golden? Anything for Sanford? Mr. Smith, d'you know
if there's anything for Sanford?" Always, over and through all, the
enveloping clatter of typewriters, and the city roar behind that,
breaking through the barrier of the door.

The individual, analyzed sounds again blended in one insistent noise of
hurry which assailed Una's conscience, summoned her back to her work.

She sighed, washed her stinging eyes, opened the door, and trailed back
toward her den.

In the corridor she passed three young stenographers and heard one of
t