Rose enjoyed the silence that followed. In the first place, she’d brought a little common sense to the place. The people in the room would have been even more surprised had they seen the little press story that gave an account of how, at a luncheon at old Mrs. Master’s house, members of the Master family who were well acquainted with the true conditions of the workers, not all of whom were on strike, had questioned the motives of some of the socialist agitators behind it. Old Hetty could still have her moment of glory—her luncheon would be remembered—just not in quite the way she had planned. And the family’s reputation would be saved. The story would be printed in several papers that evening.

In the silence that followed, Hetty stared. She couldn’t believe it. Her own grandson’s wife had come here to ruin her party, in this act of public disloyalty. Her reaction was instant and natural. No doubt Rose knew the trust funds would flow down to William anyway, but if she thought that anything from this house was coming to her, she could forget it.

Hetty looked round for someone to save the day. Her eye alighted on Edmund Keller. It was worth a chance.

“Well, Mr. Keller,” she asked, “will you be our knight in shining armor?”

Edmund Keller paused. He liked old Hetty Master, and he would be glad to oblige her. But even more important for him was the cause of truth. And truth was more complex than Rose was making it out to be.

He understood the city well enough to know that the Russian immigrants, having suffered political and religious persecution, were determined to fight anything that looked like oppression in their new home. The Italians, on the other hand, were only fleeing poverty. They sent money back to Italy; many of them didn’t even plan to stay in America—sometimes at the docks there were more Italians returning home than arriving. They had less reason to cause trouble, or to enter the political process, therefore. And they might put up with bad treatment when they shouldn’t. But even having said that, the situation wasn’t straightforward. And if there was one thing, as an academic, that Edmund Keller hated, it was people who simplified evidence until it was misleading.

“Are there picket lines outside the Triangle Factory?” he asked Anna.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are there Jewish girls in the picket lines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are there also Italian girls in the picket lines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are, I don’t know, maybe a quarter of the picketing girls Italian?”

“I think so.”

“Why do you not stand in the picket line?”

Anna hesitated. She remembered the day the woman from the WTU had accosted her as she went into work, demanding to know why she was betraying all the other girls. She had felt so guilty. But when she had talked to her parents about it that night, her father had ordered her never to raise the subject again.