“Really, Mr. Cord,” he said, “I believe that is a great idea of Crystal’s. I really believe if capital had more idea of the real views of labor—as you said, you eventually adopt all our ideas, why wouldn’t an intimate knowledge of individuals hurry that process?” “Simply because I should lose all influence with my own people by merely investigating you in a friendly spirit.” “Glory!” exclaimed Ben, with open contempt for such people. “Think of penalizing the first honest attempt to understand!” “You see the point of my plan, don’t you, Ben?” said Crystal. “You bet I do.” “That’s wonderful,” she answered, “for you’ve only heard half of it. In July, August, and September, we will come here to Newport, and you will get to understand father’s—” “Hold on,” cried Ben, “just a moment. That is absolutely impossible, Crystal. You don’t understand. The paper couldn’t keep me a day if I did that.” “Ha!” cried Mr. Cord, coming suddenly to life. “There’s freedom for you!” “That would be very cruel of the owners, Ben, but if they did—” “It wouldn’t be cruel at all,” said Moreton. “They wouldn’t have any choice. I should have lost all influence with my readers, if it were known—” “Glory!” said Mr. Cord. “Think of penalizing the first honest attempt to understand the capitalistic class!” Ben stood silent, caught in the grip of an intellectual dilemma which he felt every instant would dissolve itself and which didn’t. Crystal for the first time moved away from her father. “Those are my terms,” she said. “I stay with the man who agrees to them, and if you both decline them—well, I’ll go off and try and open the oyster by myself.” There was a long momentous pause, and then Tomes’s discreet knock on the door. “Mr. Verriman on the telephone, madam.” “I can’t come,” said Crystal. “Ask him to send a message.” “Don’t you see, Crystal, what your plan would do?” said her father. “Either it would make Moreton a red revolutionist and me a persecuting Bourbon, or else it would just ruin us both for either of our objectives.” “It won’t ruin you for my objectives,” said Crystal, “and women are more human, you know, than men.” Another knock at the door. Tomes’s voice again: “Mr. Verriman wishes to know if he might dine here this evening?” “No,” said Cord, looking at Crystal. Crystal raised her voice. “Certainly, Tomes. Say we shall be delighted to have him—at eight.” Both men turned to her. “Why did you do that, Crystal? Verriman—here—to-night?” Crystal did not answer—the identity of their tones, their words, and their irritation with her should have told them the answer, but didn’t. She knew that only opposition to Eddie and Eddie’s many prototypes could weld her two men solidly together. THE END