were alive to.  The talk wandered from Mrs. Humphry Ward’s new book to Shaw’s latest play, through the future of the drama to reminiscences of Mansfield.  They appreciated or sneered at the morning editorials, jumped from labor conditions in New Zealand to Henry James and Brander Matthews, passed on to the German designs in the Far East and the economic aspect of the Yellow Peril, wrangled over the German elections and Bebel’s last speech, and settled down to local politics, the latest plans and scandals in the union labor party administration, and the wires that were pulled to bring about the Coast Seamen’s strike.  Martin was struck by the inside knowledge they possessed.  They knew what was never printed in the newspapers—­the wires and strings and the hidden hands that made the puppets dance.  To Martin’s surprise, the girl, Mary, joined in the conversation, displaying an intelligence he had never encountered in the few women he had met.  They talked together on Swinburne and Rossetti, after which she led him beyond his depth into the by-paths of French literature.  His revenge came when she defended Maeterlinck and he brought into action the carefully-thought-out thesis of “The Shame of the Sun.”

Several other men had dropped in, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke, when Brissenden waved the red flag.

“Here’s fresh meat for your axe, Kreis,” he said; “a rose-white youth with the ardor of a lover for Herbert Spencer.  Make a Haeckelite of him—­if you can.”

Kreis seemed to wake up and flash like some metallic, magnetic thing, while Norton looked at Martin sympathetically, with a sweet, girlish smile, as much as to say that he would be amply protected.

Kreis began directly on Martin, but step by step Norton interfered, until he and Kreis were off and away in a personal battle.  Martin listened and fain would have rubbed his eyes.  It was impossible that this should be, much less in the labor ghetto south of Market.  The books were alive in these men.  They talked with fire and enthusiasm, the intellectual stimulant stirring them as he had seen drink and anger stir other men.  What he heard was no longer the philosophy of the dry, printed word, written by half-mythical demigods like Kant and Spencer.  It was living philosophy, with warm, red blood, incarnated in these two men till its very features worked with excitement.  Now and again other men joined in, and all followed the discussion with cigarettes going out in their hands and with alert, intent faces.

Idealism had never attracted Martin, but the exposition it now received at the hands of Norton was a revelation.  The logical plausibility of it, that made an appeal to his intellect, seemed missed by Kreis and Hamilton, who sneered at Norton as a metaphysician, and who, in turn, sneered back at them as metaphysicians.  Phenomenon and noumenon were bandied back and forth.  They charged him with attempting to explain consciousness by itself.  He charged them with word-jugglery, with reasoning from words to theory instead of from facts to theory.  At this they were aghast.  It was the cardinal tenet of their mode of reasoning to start with facts and to give names to the facts.