for he turned abruptly and went back to his desk.
"Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?" demanded Edith of her brother. "I mean do they attack you violently and all that?"
Henry replaced his eye-shade and yawned.
"The human race has come a long way," he said casually, "but most of us are throw-backs; the soldiers don't know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like. They're used to acting in large bodies, and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be against us. There've been riots all over the city to-night. It's May Day, you see."
"Was the disturbance here pretty serious?"
"Not a bit," he said scornfully. "About twenty-five of them stopped in the street about nine o'clock, and began to bellow at the moon."
"Oh"—She changed the subject. "You're glad to see me, Henry?"
"Why, sure."
"You don't seem to be."
"I am."
"I suppose you think I'm a—a waster. Sort of the World's Worst Butterfly."
Henry laughed.
"Not at all. Have a good time while you're young. Why? Do I seem like the priggish and earnest youth?"
"No—" she paused,"—but somehow I began thinking how absolutely different the party I'm on is from—from all your purposes. It seems sort of—of incongruous, doesn't it?—me being at a party like that, and you over here working for a thing that'll make that sort of party impossible ever any more, if your ideas work."
"I don't think of it that way. You're young, and
