“However,” continued Clearwater, “Sayler assures me that you are a sound, safe man--that you have nothing of the demagogue in you--that you stand for the fine old American principle of freedom, of the utmost opportunity.” “What do you mean by opportunity?” asked George. Clearwater frowned slightly. “I mean--opportunity,” said he, in the tone of one forbidding further questioning as impertinence. George settled himself back in his chair with a long sigh. “I see that Senator Sayler has been too kind about me,” said he. “He has given you a false impression of me.” “I am sorry to hear it,” said Clearwater curtly. His look and his voice were a warning that Helm would better draw back if he did not wish to provoke a wrath that had been not without difficulty soothed by Sayler and Eleanor. Helm understood. His eyes had never been kinder or gentler--or more direct--than as he replied: “There can never be any political sympathy between you and me, Senator. I have made my fight thus far along the lines I believe to be right. I have not said more than I meant, but less.” Clearwater rose, rage flaming in his cheeks. “I suspected so!” he cried. “I can’t imagine Sayler’s object in trying to deceive me--to trick me into admitting to my family one of this new breed of dangerous young demagogues who want to substitute anarchy and socialism for the republic of the fathers.” He glowered at George, sitting and staring into space, the look of tragedy, of profound melancholy strong upon his homely, gaunt face. He went on: “You look like an intelligent man. How can you fly in the face of your common-sense? To get office, to lift yourself, you are willing to rouse the ignorant and the idle to hate and to assault the men whom God has raised up to develop and to guard this country! I was poor myself, and I was anxious to get up in the world. But I’d rather have thrust my right hand into the fire than have lifted it against my country.” George Helm heaved another long sigh, rose and regarded the old lumber king sadly. Said he: “I sha’n’t argue with you, sir. We’d only get into a wrangle. I simply couldn’t allow you to misunderstand about me.” “Why did you come here, at all?” demanded Clearwater. “Did Sayler fool you, too? Has he been trying to make us both puppets in some political game of his? Why should he wish to humiliate me by tricking me into letting my daughter marry a demagogue?” Helm flushed, but his voice was gentle as he replied: “I think you’re unjust to Senator Sayler, sir. He knew that your daughter and I loved each other. He likes both of us, and he knew you’d put your daughter’s happiness above what he probably regards as simply a difference of political opinion.” “Anarchy and socialism aren’t political opinions,” retorted Clearwater. “They’re criminal, sir, criminal. And I regard any one who holds the ideas you profess--I regard him as a criminal. He _is_ a criminal--an inciter of riot and murder and theft.”