It's tonic. I'll _make_ you write me." She flashed a smile at him.

"How?"

"By sending you books. You'll have to acknowledge them."

"No. I couldn't take them. I'd have to send them back."

"You wouldn't let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?"
she cried, incredulous.

"I don't take anything from anybody," he retorted doggedly.

"Ah; that's small-minded," she accused. "That's ungenerous. I wouldn't
think that of you."

He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned to
her a rigid face. "If you had ever had to accept food to keep you alive,
you'd understand."

For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself.
"But I have," she said readily, "all my life. Most of us do."

The hard muscles around his mouth relaxed. "You remind me," he said,
"that I'm not as real a socialist as I thought. Nevertheless, that
rankles in my memory. When I got my first job, I swore I'd never accept
anything from anybody again. One of the passengers on your train tried
to tip me a hundred dollars."

"He must have been a fool," said Io scornfully.