Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver:

"Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes.... Yes, I am going out with Ilse....

Why, no, I had no engagement with you, Jim! I'm sorry, but I didn't understand--No; I had no idea that you expected to see me--wait a moment, please!"--she put one hand over the transmitter, turned to Ilse with flushed cheeks and a shyly interrogative smile: "Shall I ask him to dine with us and go with us?"

"If you choose," called Ilse, faintly amused.

Then Palla called him: "--Jim! Come to dinner at once. And wear your business clothes.... What?... Yes, your every day clothes.... What?...

Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn't that a reason?... Thank you....

Yes, come immediately.... Good-bye, de----"

She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and picked up the evening paper, not daring to glance at Ilse.

CHAPTER XI

When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one hand and Palla's ankle with the other.

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: "I'm trying to find out how many yards it takes for my curtains," she explained. But she climbed down and gave him her hand; and they went immediately into the dining-room.

"What's all this nonsense about the Red Flag Club?" he inquired, when they were seated. "Do you and Ilse really propose going to that dirty anarchist joint?"

"How do you know it's dirty?" demanded Palla, "--or do you mean it's only morally dingy?"

Both she and Ilse appeared to be in unusually lively spirits, and they poked fun at him when he objected to their attending the meeting in question.

"Very well," he said, "but there may be a free fight. There was a row on Fifth Avenue this evening, where some of those rats were parading with red flags."

Palla laughed and cast a demure glance at Ilse.

"What is there to laugh at?" demanded Jim. "There was a small riot on Fifth Avenue! I met several men at the club who witnessed it."

The sea-blue eyes of Ilse were full of mischief. He was aware of Palla's subtle exhilaration, too.

"Why hunt for a free fight?" he asked.

"Why avoid one if it's free?" retorted Ilse, gaily.

They all laughed.

"Is that your idea of liberty?" he asked Palla.

"What is all human progress but a free fight?" she retorted. "Of course," she added, "Ilse means an intellectual battle. If they misbehave otherwise, I shall flee."

"I don't see why you want to go to hear a lot of Reds talk bosh," he remarked. "It isn't like you, Palla."

"It _is_ like me. You see you don't really know me, Jim," she added with smiling malice.

"The main thing," said Ilse, "is for one to be one's self. Palla and I are social revolutionists. Revolutionists revolt. A revolt is a row.

There can be no row unless people fight."

He smiled at their irresponsible gaiety, a little puzzled by it and a little uneasy.

"All right," he said, as coffee was served; "but it's just as well that I'm going with you."

The ex-girl-soldier gave him an amused glance, lighted a cigarette, glanced at her wrist-watch, then rose lightly to her graceful, athletic height, saying that they ought to start.

So they went away to pin on their hats, and Jim called a taxi.

The hall was well filled when they arrived. There was a rostrum, on which two wooden benches faced a table and a chair in the centre. On the table stood a pitcher of drinking water, a soiled gla.s.s, and a jug full of red carnations.

A dozen men and women occupied the two benches. At the table a man sat writing. He held a lighted cigar in one hand; a red silk handkerchief trailed from his coat pocket.

As Ilse and Palla seated themselves on an empty bench and Shotwell found a place beside them, somebody on the next bench beyond leaned over and bade them good evening in a low voice.

"Mr. Brisson!" exclaimed Palla, giving him her hand in unfeigned pleasure.

Brisson shook hands, also, with Ilse, cordially, and then was introduced to Jim.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired humorously of Palla. "And, by the way,"--dropping his voice--"these Reds don't exactly love me, so don't use my name."

Palla nodded and whispered to Jim: "He secured all that d.a.m.ning evidence at the Smolny for our Government."

Brisson and Ilse were engaged in low-voiced conversation: Palla ventured to look about her.

The character of the gathering was foreign. There were few American features among the faces, but those few were immeasurably superior in type--here and there the intellectual, spectacled visage of some educated visionary, lured into the red tide and left there drifting;--here and there some pale girl, carelessly dressed, seated with folded hands, and intense gaze fixed on s.p.a.ce.

But the majority of these people, men and women, were foreign in aspect--round, bushy heads with no backs to them were everywhere; muddy skins, unhealthy skins, loose mouths, shifty eyes!--everywhere around her Palla saw the stigma of degeneracy.

She said in a low voice to Jim: "These poor things need to be properly housed and fed before they're taught. Education doesn't interest empty stomachs. And when they're given only poison to stop the pangs--what does civilisation expect?"

He said: "They're a lot of b.u.ms. The only education they require is with a night-stick."

"That's cruel, Jim."

"It's law."

"One of your laws which does not appeal to me," she remarked, turning to Brisson, who was leaning over to speak to her.

"There are half a dozen plain-clothes men in the audience," he said.

"There are Government detectives here, too. I rather expect they'll stop the proceedings before the programme calls for it."

Jim turned to look back. A file of policemen entered and carelessly took up posts in the rear of the hall. Hundreds of flat-backed heads turned, too; hundreds of faces darkened; a low muttering arose from the benches.