He glanced at Ruth for reassurance, much in the same manner that a passenger, with sudden panic thought of possible shipwreck, will strive to locate the life preservers.  Well, that much had come out of it—­love and Ruth.  All the rest had failed to stand the test of the books.  But Ruth and love had stood the test; for them he found a biological sanction.  Love was the most exalted expression of life.  Nature had been busy designing him, as she had been busy with all normal men, for the purpose of loving.  She had spent ten thousand centuries—­ay, a hundred thousand and a million centuries—­upon the task, and he was the best she could do.  She had made love the strongest thing in him, increased its power a myriad per cent with her gift of imagination, and sent him forth into the ephemera to thrill and melt and mate.  His hand sought Ruth’s hand beside him hidden by the table, and a warm pressure was given and received.  She looked at him a swift instant, and her eyes were radiant and melting.  So were his in the thrill that pervaded him; nor did he realize how much that was radiant and melting in her eyes had been aroused by what she had seen in his.

Across the table from him, cater-cornered, at Mr. Morse’s right, sat Judge Blount, a local superior court judge.  Martin had met him a number of times and had failed to like him.  He and Ruth’s father were discussing labor union politics, the local situation, and socialism, and Mr. Morse was endeavoring to twit Martin on the latter topic.  At last Judge Blount looked across the table with benignant and fatherly pity.  Martin smiled to himself.

“You’ll grow out of it, young man,” he said soothingly.  “Time is the best cure for such youthful distempers.”  He turned to Mr. Morse.  “I do not believe discussion is good in such cases.  It makes the patient obstinate.”

“That is true,” the other assented gravely.  “But it is well to warn the patient occasionally of his condition.”

Martin laughed merrily, but it was with an effort.  The day had been too long, the day’s effort too intense, and he was deep in the throes of the reaction.

“Undoubtedly you are both excellent doctors,” he said; “but if you care a whit for the opinion of the patient, let him tell you that you are poor diagnosticians.  In fact, you are both suffering from the disease you think you find in me.  As for me, I am immune.  The socialist philosophy that riots half-baked in your veins has passed me by.”

“Clever, clever,” murmured the judge.  “An excellent ruse in controversy, to reverse positions.”

“Out of your mouth.”  Martin’s eyes were sparkling, but he kept control of himself.  “You see, Judge, I’ve heard your campaign speeches.  By some henidical process—­henidical, by the way is a favorite word of mine which nobody understands—­by some henidical process you persuade yourself that you believe in the competitive system and the survival of the strong, and at the same time you indorse with might and main all sorts of measures to shear the strength from the strong.”