He had not looked at the Brewsters at all.
"That little Ellen Brewster who ran away and was gone most three days a little while ago.

She was in that sleigh we just passed.

She is just the sweetest child I ever laid eyes on," and Norman Lloyd smiled vaguely and coldly, and cast a glance over his sable-clad shoulders to see how far behind the team whose approaching bells he heard might be.
"I suppose her father and aunt are out of work on account of the closing of the factory," remarked Mrs.Lloyd, and a shadow of reflection came over her radiant face.
"Yes, I believe they worked there," Lloyd replied, shaking loose the reins and speeding the horses, that he might not be overtaken.

In a few minutes they reached the factory neighborhood.

There were three factories: two of them on opposite sides of the road, humming with labor, and puffing with jets of steam at different points; Lloyd's, beyond, was as large as both those standing hushed with windows blank in the afternoon sunshine.
"I suppose the poor men feel pretty badly at being thrown out of work," Mrs.Lloyd said, looking up at the windows as she slipped past in her nest of furs.
"They feel so badly that I have seen a round dozen since we started out taking advantage of their liberty to have a sleigh-ride with livery teams at a good round price," Lloyd replied, with languid emphasis.