"I went to Lueders's house the other evening for supper," Allen was saying. "I rather put it up to him to ask me, and he has a house with a garden, and his wife was most amusing. We all talked German, including the kids,--three of them, fascinating little fellows. He's a cabinetmaker, Miss Bassett,--a producer of antiques, and a good one; and about the gentlest human being you ever saw. He talks about existing law as though it were some kind of devil,--a monster, devouring the world's poor. But he won't let his wife spank the children,--wouldn't, even when one of them kicked a hole in my hat! I supposed that of course there would be dynamite lying round in tomato cans; and when I shook the pepper box I expected an explosion; but I didn't see a gun on the place. He's beautifully good-natured, and laughed in the greatest way when I asked him how soon he thought of blowing up some of our prominent citizens. I really believe he likes me--strange but true." "Better not get in too deep with those fellows," warned Dan. "The police watch Lueders carefully; he's considered dangerous. It's the quiet ones, who are kind to their families and raise cabbages, that are the most violent." "Oh, Lueders says we've got to smash everything! He rather favors socialism himself, but he wants to tear down the court-houses first and begin again." "You'd better be careful or you'll land in jail, Mr. Thatcher," remarked Marian, taking an olive. "Oh, if anything as interesting as that should happen to me, I should certainly die of joy!" "But your family wouldn't like it if you went to jail," persisted Marian, delighting in the confidences of a young gentleman for whom jails had no terrors. "The thought of my family is disturbing, it's positively disturbing," Allen replied. "Lueders has given me a chance in his shop, and really expects me to work. Surprising in an anarchist; you'd rather expect him to press a stick of dynamite in your hand and tell you to go out and blow up a bank. Lueders has a sense of humor, you know: hence the antiques, made to coax money from the purses of the fat rich. There are more ways than one of being a cut-purse." The lobster had been consumed, and they were almost alone in the restaurant. Marian, with her elbows on the table, was in no haste to leave, but Dan caught the eye of the hovering waiter and paid the check. "You shouldn't have done that," Marian protested; "it was my party. I sign my own checks here." But having now asserted himself, Dan rose, and in a moment he and Allen had bidden her good-night at the elevator door. "You didn't seem crazy about your lobster, and you were hardly more than polite to our hostess. Sorry to have butted in. But why have you kept these tender recreations from me!"