“Where?” she asked.

“At the Hampton—­it is a little cafe where we all go.  Perhaps you’ve been there.”

“No,” said Janet.

“It doesn’t compare with the cafes of Europe—­or of New York.  Perhaps we shall go to them sometime, together.  But it is cosy, and warm, and all the leaders will be there.  You’ll come—­yes?”

“Yes, I’ll come,” she said....

The Hampton was one of the city’s second-class hotels, but sufficiently pretentious to have, in its basement, a “cafe” furnished in the “mission” style of brass tacks and dull red leather.  In the warm, food-scented air fantastic wisps of smoke hung over the groups; among them Janet made out several of the itinerant leaders of Syndicalism, loose-tied, debonnair, giving a tremendous impression of freedom as they laughed and chatted with the women.  For there were women, ranging from the redoubtable Nellie Bond herself down to those who may be designated as camp-followers.  Rolfe, as he led Janet to a table in a corner of the room, greeted his associates with easy camaraderie.  From Miss Bond he received an illuminating smile.  Janet wondered at her striking good looks, at the boldness and abandon with which she talked to Jastro or exchanged sallies across the room.  The atmosphere of this tawdry resort, formerly frequented by shop girls and travelling salesmen, was magically transformed by the presence of this company, made bohemian, cosmopolitan, exhilarating.  And Janet, her face flushed, sat gazing at the scene, while Rolfe consulted the bill of fare and chose a beefsteak and French fried potatoes.  The apathetic waiter in the soiled linen jacket he addressed as “comrade.”  Janet protested when he ordered cocktails.

“You must learn to live, to relax, to enjoy yourself,” he declared.

But a horror of liquor held her firm in her refusal.  Rolfe drank his, and while they awaited the beefsteak she was silent, the prey of certain misgivings that suddenly assailed her.  Lise, she remembered, had sometimes mentioned this place, though preferring Gruber’s:  and she was struck by the contrast between this spectacle and the grimness of the strike these people had come to encourage and sustain, the conflict in the streets, the suffering in the tenements.  She glanced at Rolfe, noting the manner in which he smoked cigarettes, sensually, as though seeking to wring out of each all there was to be got before flinging it down and lighting another.  Again she was struck by the anomaly of a religion that had indeed enthusiasms, sacrifices perhaps, but no disciplines.  He threw it out in snatches, this religion, while relating the histories of certain persons in the room:  of Jastro, for instance, letting fall a hint to the effect that this evangelist and bliss Bond were dwelling together in more than amity.

“Then you don’t believe in marriage?” she demanded, suddenly.

Rolfe laughed.

“What is it,” he exclaimed, “but the survival of the system of property?  It’s slavery, taboo, a device upheld by the master class to keep women in bondage, in superstition, by inducing them to accept it as a decree of God.”