Carlisle's attention was not diverted from her eyebrow. "The Works! He's
crazy.... Who is the man?"

"A piece in the paper here--let me see. Yes, here's his name. Vivian.
_V. Vivian_! There's no such man!..."

"Oh," said the girl, absently, "it's only some notoriety-seeking
nobody.... Like the man who threw the brick at papa that
election night."

"But nobodies haven't any right to publish such untruths!" said Mrs.
Heth, more grammatical than she sounded. "They ought to be punished,
imprisoned for it. 'Public opinion is the grandfather of statute-book
law.' Where's the sense in that?..."

"It's probably one of those Socialistic things.... They said the man who
threw the brick at papa was a Socialist."

"'Shameless egoists of industry--grow rich by homicide!' I'm greatly
surprised at Mr. West for printing such fanatical stuff. I trust your
father did not see this. He gave forty dollars to the tuberculosis fund,
and this is his reward."

She fumed and interjected awhile further, but her daughter's thought
had dreamed far away. From her childhood days she had carried a
mind's-eye picture of the dominant fourth member of the family, the
great Works, lord and giver of her higher life, which completely refuted
these occasional assaults from socialists and failures. Their malicious
bricks flew high over her girlish head. Presently Mrs. Heth rose,
looking about for her novel, which was a glittering new one, frankly for