“All right,” she agreed, unruffled. “Let’s you and me have luncheon together.” “Very well.” “I’ll call for you at twelve.” Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some parting pleasantry. “Well”--he began awkwardly. They both turned to him. “Well, we--we had an exciting time earlier in the evening.” The two men exchanged glances. “You should have come earlier,” continued Bartholomew, somewhat encouraged. “We had a regular vaudeville.” “Did you really?” “A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in the street and began to yell at the sign.” “Why?” she demanded. “Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. “All crowds have to howl. They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.” “Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been here.” He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, 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 you’re acting just as you were brought up to act. Go ahead--have a good time?” Her feet, which had been idly swinging, stopped and her voice dropped a note. “I wish you’d--you’d come back to Harrisburg and have a good time. Do you feel sure that you’re on the right track----” “You’re wearing beautiful stockings,” he interrupted. “What on earth are they?”