“Don’t you smoke, Mr. Sprague?” she asked when they had finished the beer. Jim did not smoke, but in view of Delia’s eyes and the “Mr.” he answered, “Yes,” adding, “but I haven’t any cigars with me.” “I’ll get you some cigarettes,” she offered, opening a drawer in the table. “I’ll have one too,” she went on with her inevitable laugh, as she removed a cigarette from the package before handing it to him. They smoked a moment in silence, Delia inhaling her cigarette with evident pleasure. “Are you a partner in your father’s business?” she inquired, at length, knocking the ash from her cigarette. “No,” returned Jim hastily, “I’m only clerking for him. I’ve just finished high school.” “How much does he pay you?” she pursued. She was smiling at him bewitchingly and Jim put aside the crudeness of her questions. “He don’t pay me anything,” he admitted honestly. “That’s better,” she declared. “It shows that he intends to give you a share in the concern.” Jim shook his head dubiously. “I don’t know about that.” “You’re his only child, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “Of course he will,” she affirmed with emphasis, “and in time you’ll have it all. He’s rich, isn’t he?” “Why, no,” began Jim. “Pretty well fixed, anyway,” she put in laughing. “Well, there’s many that would like to be in your shoes, Mr. Sprague.” Jim placed his half finished cigarette on the ash tray. “Have some more beer?” she queried. “No, thank you.” “What’s your given name?” she demanded suddenly. “James.” He was smiling now. “Do they call you Jimmie?” “No, Jim,” he replied, glancing at her hair. “Then I’m going to call you Jim too.” “All right, Mrs. Johnson, I’m----” “You mean thing!” she interrupted. “I don’t believe you like me a bit!” Jim looked surprised. “Do you?” she insisted. “Why, yes.” He studied her a moment, then, with increasing emphasis, “Of course I do. I like you fine.” She reached over and touched his cheek lightly. “Then you must call me Delia,” she stipulated, and added, “I like you, too, Jim, awfully well.” He blushed and trembled a little at the caress. “I--I must go,” he stammered, rising. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. “Let’s talk a minute.” Jim hesitated and then reseated himself. Delia moved her chair a little farther from him. “Wasn’t that awful in the morning’s paper about their killing the strikers in Chicago?” She spoke in a more impersonal tone. Jim drew a long breath. “I think it’s terrible!” he exclaimed. “Those men have no other way of protesting against injustice than by striking.” “The paper says they’re trying to wreck business.” “They’re not any such thing!” he insisted. “They’re most of them fathers of families and dependent on their wages. It’s nonsense to suggest such things. What they want is enough to live on.” “You aren’t an anarchist, are you?”