“Yes,” he said, taking possession of the hearthrug, “the war had to come sooner or later.  If we smash their fleet for them now; well, there’s an end to the matter!”

He stood on his toes and then bumped down on his heels, and looked blandly through his spectacles at a water-color by his sister—­the subject was a bunch of violets—­above the sideboard which was his pantry and tea-chest and cellar.  “Yes,” he said as he did so.

I coughed, and wondered how I might presently get away.

He invited me to smoke—­that queer old practice!—­and then when I declined, began talking in a confidential tone of this “dreadful business” of the strikes.  “The war won’t improve that outlook,” he said, and was very grave for a moment.

He spoke of the want of thought for their wives and children shown by the colliers in striking merely for the sake of the union, and this stirred me to controversy, and distracted me a little from my resolution to escape.

“I don’t quite agree with that,” I said, clearing my throat.  “If the men didn’t strike for the union now, if they let that be broken up, where would they be when the pinch of reductions did come?”

To which he replied that they couldn’t expect to get top-price wages when the masters were selling bottom-price coal.  I replied, “That isn’t it.  The masters don’t treat them fairly.  They have to protect themselves.”

To which Mr. Gabbitas answered, “Well, I don’t know.  I’ve been in the Four Towns some time, and I must say I don’t think the balance of injustice falls on the masters’ side.”

“It falls on the men,” I agreed, wilfully misunderstanding him.

And so we worked our way toward an argument.  “Confound this argument!” I thought; but I had no skill in self-extraction, and my irritation crept into my voice.  Three little spots of color came into the cheeks and nose of Mr. Gabbitas, but his voice showed nothing of his ruffled temper.

“You see,” I said, “I’m a socialist.  I don’t think this world was made for a small minority to dance on the faces of every one else.”

“My dear fellow,” said the Rev. Gabbitas, “I’m a socialist too.  Who isn’t.  But that doesn’t lead me to class hatred.”

“You haven’t felt the heel of this confounded system.  I have.”

“Ah!” said he; and catching him on that note came a rap at the front door, and, as he hung suspended, the sound of my mother letting some one in and a timid rap.

“Now,” thought I, and stood up, resolutely, but he would not let me.  “No, no, no!” said he.  “It’s only for the Dorcas money.”

He put his hand against my chest with an effect of physical compulsion, and cried, “Come in!”

“Our talk’s just getting interesting,” he protested; and there entered Miss Ramell, an elderly little young lady who was mighty in Church help in Clayton.

He greeted her—­she took no notice of me—­and went to his bureau, and I remained standing by my chair but unable to get out of the room.  “I’m not interrupting?” asked Miss Ramell.