wasn't myself, then, you ought
to have seen that. And when I heard from Caldwell here that you'd joined
those anarchists--"

"They're no worse than you are--they only want what you've got," she
said.

He waved this aside. "I couldn't believe it--I wouldn't believe it until
somebody saw you walking with one of them to their Headquarters. Why did
you do it?"

"Because I know how they feel, I sympathize with the strikers, I want
them to win--against you!" She lifted her head and looked at him, and in
spite of the state of his feelings he felt a twinge of admiration at her
defiance.

"Because you love me!" he said.

"Because I hate you," she answered.

And yet a spark of exultation leaped within him at the thought that love
had caused this apostasy. He had had that suspicion before, though it was
a poor consolation when he could not reach her. Now she had made it
vivid. A woman's logic, or lack of logic--her logic.

"Listen!" he pleaded. "I tried to forget you--I tried to keep myself
going all the time that I mightn't think of you, but I couldn't help
thinking of you, wanting you, longing for you. I never knew why you left
me, except that you seemed to believe I was unkind to you, and that
something had happened. It wasn't my fault--" he pulled himself up
abruptly.

"I found out what men were like," she said. "A man made my sister a woman
of the streets--that's what you've done to me."

He winced. And the calmness she had regained, which was so characteristic
of her, struck him with a new fear.

"I'm not that kind of a man," he said.

But she did not answer. His predicament became more trying.

"I'll take care of you," he assured her, after a moment. "If you'll only
trust me, if you'll only come to me I'll see that no harm comes to you."

She regarded him with a sort of wonder--a look that put a fine edge of
dignity and scorn to her words when they came.

"I told you I didn't want to be taken care of--I wanted to kill you, and
kill myself. I don't know why I can't what prevents me." She rose. "But
I'm not going to trouble you any more--you'll never hear of me again."

She would not trouble him, she was going away, he would never hear of her
again! Suddenly, with the surge of relief he experienced, came a pang. He
could not let her go--it was impossible. It seemed that he had never
understood his need of her, his love for her, until now that he had
brought her to this supreme test of self-revelation. She h