The demand!  Where there is a demand it must be supplied, and everything must give way to the processes of furnishing that supply:  land, slavery, what not.  Then there are general references to life and to labor.  After all, all labor is slavery they say.  Apprentices, farm hands, factory workers are slaves.  All this struggling mass of toilers must, in the fate of life, be consumed in the great drama of furnishing clothes and food and roofs for those who can pay.  But cotton needs more land.  And is not the territory of the United States, the great commons and domains of all the states, North and South, to be used by them for their several and common benefit, for the intromission of property:  slaves or cattle or utensils?  It seems to me, now that I hear these men talk, that I am compelled to listen everywhere in America to schemes of trade, material progress, the accumulation of money.  These planters go on to ask why lines should be drawn across the territory of the United States forbidding slavery north of the line and permitting it south of the line.  This territory had been paid for equally by the treasure and blood of all the states.  Blood for land!  Then slavery on the land to raise cotton!  And was not Jefferson prophetic when he wrote that the extension of this divisional line in 1820 alarmed him like a fire bell at midnight?  It betokened sectional strife:  the North against the South.  And about trade!  For as the Southern States grew richer they would have more political power, could dominate the North.  Some one must dominate.  There must be a supremacy.  And what would this growing hostility lead to?  What would future inventions do to exacerbate it?  What of the steam engine, what of machinery, what of unknown developments?

I could not help but think of the bearing that all of this had on my own life.

But finally as they paid for their dinner, lighted cigars, and became less energetic of mood, one asked the other:  “Have you ever heard from the girl?” The reply was:  “Not a word.  How could I?  I didn’t leave my name.  It was best to close the matter by leaving no trace of myself.”  And the first asked:  “Wasn’t your name on the draft?” “I had gold, a bag of gold.  I simply turned it over to the new husband and went my way.”

I was all ears now, studying, too, the face of the man who was confessing to the bag of gold.  Was there a trace of Zoe in him?  I could not be sure.  I seemed to see something about the eyes, but it faded under my scrutiny.  At best this man was only Zoe’s grandfather; and my father’s blood was nearer to Zoe than his.

They started to arise from the table.  I wished to follow them.  But I had not paid for my meal.  I beckoned to a waiter.  While he was coming the two planters strolled leisurely from the cafe arm in arm and in intimate conversation.

I was hurrying to be away and to follow them—­I scarcely knew why.  They were gone when my waiter came.  I asked him who the planters were.  He didn’t know their names; only knew them as rich planters who often visited the cafe.  I left the cafe and tried to find them, but they had disappeared.  And I stood on the curb watching the iridescent ooze of the sewage in a runnel of the street seep along like a sick snake.