ecome soil for roses, flowers of love.

"Henry is a rose, too, in his way. He is getting more picturesque every
day. At the Emma Goldman social he was ornamented with a new straw hat,
which had a very high crown and narrow brim with little black ribbons
for the side. Also, an enormous tie, the ends of which fluttered gaily
and coquettishly in the wind. His curling black locks nearly reached his
shoulders, and he has vowed never again to cut his hair, as a protest
against the conventions of society. I left the social with him, and as
we walked down the street in the morning he was a target for all eyes.
He was talking philosophy and love to me, but this changed to fury. He
flung his arms about, and shouted to the crowd: 'Oh, you monkeys, sheep,
dogs,' and several other kinds of quadrupeds and birds. Henry is a
peculiar man, but he is as sincere as anybody living and is a friend of
that wonderful man, Kropotkin. When Kropotkin was in Chicago some years
ago a reception was given him at Hull House. Poor Henry eagerly hastened
there to see his friend--dressed in unbecoming and informal attire. He
had not seen Kropotkin for years, and so anxious was he to meet him
again that he forgot his raggedness. But the dear, sympathetic
settlement workers were decidedly polite in showing Henry the door. But,
at the psychological moment, Kropotkin appeared, threw his arms around
Henry, kissed him, and carried on like an emigrant who runs across an
exile."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] See "The Spirit of Labour," Chapter 4, called "An Anarchist Salon,"
for a description of some of the principal members of this society.--H.
H.

[3] This is worthy of some of the mythological-Christian paintings of
Mantegna, where the vices are being scourged by the indignant
virtues.--H. H.

CHAPTER X

_More of the Salon_

"I have been imagining you in Paris," wrote Marie, "having a delightful,
bohemian time. My ideas of Paris are all derived from reading Balzac,
who has certainly created the most delightful, gay and mysterious, sad,
mystic, sordid, everything one could wish in a city of dreams and
realities.

"When Terry brought me 'Evelyn Innes,' by George Moore, the other day, I
dug into it with zeal and delight, and was surprised and pleased with
his subtle psychology, during the first part of the story; but
psychology can be carried to the point where it becomes
incomprehensible, stupefying and monotonous. I finally grew
indescribably weary of t