"What was all the noise about?" asked the old woman.
"Why, Steve was just going, and he accidentally tipped over his chair getting up, that's all. You needn't go back into the kitchen, mother. Steve isn't going to stay any longer."
The man's scowl deepened. "But there's more I want to say to you," he said, "and I want to say it to you alone."
"Not to-night, Steve. Some other time, perhaps. I want to think over what you've already told me. You've given me some wonderful ideas, some heavenly hopes. I want to think them over."
"And I want my reward. I've earned it. I insist on having it."
She laughed. "Steve's joking, mother," she said. She faced him jauntily. "Not to-night, comrade. Wait till the wreck is more complete. Wait till the socialist commonwealth is more nearly established. Oh, you shall have it; in due time you shall have it—a man's reward."
She smiled up into his face as winsomely, as charmingly, as modestly, as a young girl would smile into her first lover's face on the eve of her betrothal.
"Good-night, Steve," she added, "and my thanks to you, and good luck to you. Keep on. Revenge is sweet. But remember: there's a thing that's sweeter than revenge."
She helped him into his overcoat as she talked, gave him his cap, went with him to the door, and closed it behind him as he passed out. When he was gone the old woman said to her:
"Mary, I don't like the look o' things."
"There's nothing to worry about, mother."
"But I don't like the look o' things," she repeated. "That man ain't safe. I wish he wouldn't come here any more."
"Why, he's as harmless as a baby."
