"Don't you remember?--chap that wrote that fierce slush attackin' the Works, month or so ago? That's the bird.--Got rye right here, if you prefer it, Canning.--Walked a block with him and old Beirne just now. Remember Amy Beirne--eloped with some inventor fellow--what's his name--oh, sure, Vivian, haha! Lived in Alabama. Here's regards." Mrs. Heth now recalled the name, and also having asked Willie, long since, to identify it. However, she thought the topic just a little inopportune at the moment. "Ah, yes. Mr. Beirne's nephew--well! I hope you made this _very_ mild, indeed, Willie? You know I rarely consent to.... He might be better employed, one would think, than vilifying the Works, but there's no accounting for tastes, as I always say." "Just water with a dash, ma'am. Oh, he's one of these slumming chaps, seems--kind of a Socialist, y' know--" "The Works?" queried Mr. Canning. "Ah, yes! Mr. Heth's--of course! Is a cigarette permitted?..." Carlisle, who had been gazing into the fire and acquiring information, roused. "Oh, here's your tea, Willie!" said she. "How very good it looks!" Unlike mamma, she did not in the least mind Mr. Canning's hearing mention of the Works, even under attack. Shame at trade was not in her: she was confidently proud of the great mute author of her brilliant being. And it was by this pride, dating back many years and untouched by any late personal impression, that no "attack" could gain standing in her mind. At seven, she had one day asked her father, "Papa, what _are_ the Works?"--and papa had smiled and answered, "It's the place where all our money comes from." To this day, her mind's eye called up a great white marble palace, something like the New York Public Library, only bigger, from the front of which, through an enormous cornucopia, poured a ceaseless flood of golden dollars.... "I've no patience with Socialism," said Mrs. Heth, rising. "Where do you want your things put, Willie? Divide all our property up equally with the lazy and drunken classes, to-day, and by to-morrow the hard-working, well-to-do people would have won every bit of it back again. I'm surprised everybody can't see that, aren't you, Mr. Canning?" "I'm astonished at their blindness," said Canning, gazing at the floor. "Vivian is clearly off his chump at all points." "That's right--screw loose," said Willie, genially. "Set 'em here, boy. From the feller's literary style, I'd expected a regular riproarin' fire-eater. Gad, no! Face like a child's, kinder cute-lookin'! Fact. Polite as peaches. You pour, Carlisle, will you?"