"Yes, that's what our money-makers are,--from the soil, from the masses. And when they feel their power, they use it worse than the most arrogant aristocrats. Of course the strikers are all wrong, poor fools!" he hastened to add. "But they are not as bad as the others, as _those who have_. The men will be licked fast enough, and licked badly. They always will be. But it is a brutal game, a brutal game, this business success,--a good deal worse than war, where you line up in the open at least." Sommers spoke nonchalantly, as if his views could not interest Dr. Lindsay, but were interesting to himself, nevertheless. "That's pretty fierce!" Lindsay remarked, with a laugh. "I guess you haven't seen much of business. If you had been here during the anarchist riots--" Sommers involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. The anarchist was the most terrifying bugaboo in Chicago, referred to as a kind of Asiatic plague that might break out at any time. Before Lindsay could get his argument launched, however, some of the guests drifted out to the terrace, and the two men separated. Later in the evening Sommers found Miss Hitchcock alone, and explained to her that he should have to leave in the morning, as that would probably be the last chance to reach Chicago for some days. She did not urge him to stay, and expressed her regret at his departure in conventional phrases. They were standing by the edge of the terrace, which ran along the bluff above the lake. A faint murmur of little waves rose to them from the beach beneath. "It is so heavenly quiet!" the girl murmured, as if to reproach his dissatisfied, restless spirit. "So this is good-bye?" she added, at length. Sommers knew that she meant this would be the end of their intimacy, of anything but the commonplace service of the world. "I hope not," he answered regretfully. "Why is it we differ?" she asked swiftly. "I am sorry we should disagree on such really unimportant matters." "Don't say that," Sommers protested. "You know that it is just because you are intelligent and big enough to realize that they _are_ important that--" "We strike them every time?" she inquired. "Laura Lindsay and Caspar would think we were drivelling idiots." "I am not so sure they wouldn't be right!" She laughed nervously, and locked her hands tightly together. He turned away in discomfort, and neither spoke for a long time. Finally he broke the silence,-- "At any rate, you can see that I am scarcely a fit guest!" "So you are determined to go in this way--back to your--case?" At the scorn of her last words Sommers threw up his head haughtily. "Yes, back to my case." CHAPTER XVII Mrs. Ducharme opened the door of the cottage in response to Sommers's knock. Attired in a black house dress, with her dark hair smoothly brushed back from round, fat features, she was a peaceful figure. Sommers thought there was some truth in her contention that "Ducharme ought to get a decent-looking woman, anyway."