Her brow puckered.

“Studying what?”

“Economics—­the distribution of wealth.  It’s enough to upset anybody.”

“But I’m not upset,” she insisted, smiling in spite of herself at his comical concern.

“It’s very exciting.  I remember reading a book once on economics and such things, and I couldn’t sleep for a week.  It was called `The Organization of Happiness,’ I believe, and it described just how the world ought to be arranged—­and isn’t.  I thought seriously of going to Washington and telling the President and Congress about it.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” said Janet.

“No, I realized that.”

“The only thing that will do any good is to strike and keep on striking until the workers own the mills—­take everything away from the capitalists.”

“It’s very simple,” he agreed, “much simpler than the book I read.  That’s what they call syndicalism, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”  She was conscious of his friendliness, of the fact that his skepticism was not cynical, yet she felt a strong desire to convince him, to vindicate her new creed.  “There’s a man named Rolfe, an educated man who’s lived in Italy and England, who explains it wonderfully.  He’s one of the I.W.W. leaders—­you ought to hear him.”

“Rolfe converted you?  I’ll go to hear him.”

“Yes—­but you have to feel it, you have to know what it is to be kept down and crushed.  If you’d only stay here awhile.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he replied.

She could not have said why, but she felt a certain relief on hearing this.

“Then you’ll see for yourself!” she cried.  “I guess that’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it?”

“Well, partly.  To tell the truth, I’ve come to open a restaurant.”

“To open a restaurant!” Somehow she was unable to imagine him as the proprietor of a restaurant.  “But isn’t it rather a bad time?” she gasped.

“I don’t look as if I had an eye for business—­do I?  But I have.  No, it’s a good time—­so many people will be hungry, especially children.  I’m going to open a restaurant for children.  Oh, it will be very modest, of course—­I suppose I ought to call it a soup kitchen.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, staring at him.  “Then you really—­” the sentence remained unfinished.  “I’m sorry,” she said simply.  “You made me think—­”

“Oh, you mustn’t pay any attention to what I say.  Come ’round and see my establishment, Number 77 Dey Street, one flight up, no elevator.  Will you?”

She laughed tremulously as he took her hand.

“Yes indeed, I will,” she promised.  And she stood awhile staring after him.  She was glad he had come to Hampton, and yet she did not even know his name.

CHAPTER XVI