“Is it home, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the tiger, sublimely unconscious, as a good servant should be, of this dialogue, and of his mistress’s tears.

“No, Portman, the Club,” sobbed Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” begged Leonore, “what is it?”

“Don’t you understand?” sobbed Dorothy.  “All this fearful anarchist talk and discontent?  And my poor, poor darling!  Oh, don’t talk to me.”  Dorothy became inarticulate once more.

“How foolish married women are!” thought Leonore, even while putting her arm around Dorothy, and trying blindly to comfort her.

“Is it a message, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the man, opening the carriage-door.

“Ask for Mr. Melton, or Mr. Duer, and say Mrs. Rivington wishes to see one of them.”  Dorothy dried her eyes, and braced up.  Before Leonore had time to demand an explanation, Peter’s gentlemanly scoundrel was at the door.

“What is it, Mrs. Rivington?” he asked.

“Mr. Duer, is there any bad news from New York?”

“Yes.  A great strike on the Central is on, and the troops have been called in to keep order.”

“Is that all the news?” asked Dorothy.

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Dorothy.  “Home, Portman.”

The two women were absolutely silent during the drive.  But they kissed each other in parting, not with the peck which women so often give each other, but with a true kiss.  And when Leonore, in crossing the porch, encountered the mastiff which Peter had given her, she stopped and kissed him too, very tenderly.  What is more, she brought him inside, which was against the rules, and put him down before the fire.  Then she told the footman to bring her the evening-papers, and sitting down on the rug by Betise, proceeded to search them, not now for the political outlook, but for the labor troubles.  Leonore suddenly awoke to the fact that there were such things as commercial depressions and unemployed.  She read it all with the utmost care.  She read the outpourings of the Anarchists, in a combination of indignation, amazement and fear, “I never dreamed there could be such fearful wretches!” she said.  There was one man—­a fellow named Podds—­whom the paper reported as shrieking in Union Square to a select audience: 

“Rise!  Wipe from the face of the earth the money power!  Kill!  Kill!  Only by blood atonement can we lead the way to better things.  To a universal brotherhood of love.  Down with rich men!  Down with their paid hirelings, the troops!  Blow them in pieces!”

“Oh!” cried Leonore shuddering.  “It’s fearful.  I wish some one would blow you in pieces!” Thereby was she proving herself not unlike Podds.  All humanity have something of the Anarchist in them.  Then Leonore turned to the mastiff and told him some things.  Of how bad the strikers were, and how terrible were the Anarchists.  “Yes, dear,” she said, “I wish we had them here, and then you could treat them as they deserve, wouldn’t you, Betise?  I’m so glad he has my luck-piece!”