once, it is better to suffer and die fighting than to have the life
ground out of us--is it not?"

"Yes, it is better!" she agreed. The passion in her voice did not escape
him.

"Some day, perhaps sooner than we think, we shall have the true
Armageddon, the general strike, when the last sleeping toiler shall have
aroused himself from his lethargy to rise up and come into his
inheritance." He seemed to detach himself from her, his eyes became more
luminous.

"`Like unseen music in the night,'--so Sorel writes about it. They may
scoff at it, the wise ones, but it will come. `Like music in the night!'
You respond to that!"

Again she was silent. They had walked on, through familiar streets that
now seemed strange.

"You respond--I can tell," he said. "And yet, you are not like these
others, like me, even. You are an American. And yet you are not like most
of your countrywomen."

"Why do you say that?"

"I will tell you. Because they are cold, most of them, and trivial, they
do not feel. But you--you can feel, you can love and hate. You look calm
and cold, but you are not--I knew it when I looked at you, when you came
up to me."