Until now their conversation had been broken, disjointed, awkward, as if circumstance compelled them to talk about something. Now for the first time, a certain fire entered the Russian’s voice. Lily kept silent, watching him with her great burning eyes. She still trembled. “Maybe you think I like working twelve hours a day in that hot shed like you saw me. Maybe you think I don’t want time to read and think.” The man was working himself into a kind of frenzy. “You don’t know.... You don’t know.... And then they shoot us down like pigs.” He leaned forward and raised at Lily a strong finger. “I come here from Russia. I come here because I could not live in Russia.... My father ... My father ... He was shot by the Cossacks. I come here because they tell me that in America you are free and have a good life. And what do they give me? They make me work twelve hours in a hot shed. They put me into a filthy house. They say, you must not complain. You must do as we say. We will not pay you more. We will not let you live like a man. You are Hunkies!... You are dirt! You did not have to come here. But all the same, they want us. They send men to Russia to tell us great things about America so we will come here because they need men for the Mills ... men to feed to the furnaces like coal ... to make a few men rich.” He sighed bitterly and buried his face in his hands. “And now they shoot us like the Cossacks shot my father in Russia.... I came here full of hope and peace ... only to be shot like my father in Russia!” In his excitement he forgot the perfect English Irene had taught him. His blue eyes flashed and his face grew pale once more. “No.... They can take me.... They can hang me.... Let them! I will not go away.... It is not America or Russia that counts.... It is all humanity!... Christians.... Bah!” He spat suddenly upon the polished floor. And all at once he pitched back again among the pillows, weak and fainting. The bandage slipped from his wounded head over one eye. Quickly Lily bent over him. She poured more whiskey between his lips and refastened the bandage. Then she settled herself to chafing his strong wrists and rubbing his forehead in the old caressing motion with a delicate, white hand that trembled beyond control. A queer light came into her dark eyes. Presently he sighed and looked up at her. “I am sorry,” he said, “to bother a fine lady like you. If it had been Miss Irene.” He closed his eyes suddenly. “I have been hungry, you know. We haven’t even enough food in the Flats.” Then he took her hand and pressed it in a naive, grateful fashion. “I am sorry, you know ...” he murmured gently.