"It had such definite results," she cascaded, quite lost in this renewal of acquaintance with the head of the Women's Civic Leagues. "Such definite, concrete results, don't you know. While this other—heredity is such a factor, don't you think? One never knows what strange strain will crop out. Genius has so many strands intermingled. Now, take our own little Tony. What are we going to do about that impossible family of his? We must rescue him. We simply can't let him smother there in those hideous rooms."
"They are pretty impossible," Jean conceded with a frown. "But it's the very best possible thing for him at present. How long it will be, I don't know, and in the end, of course, he will go. He would, even if no one did anything for him. But now, he is just one quivering plate for impressions and, although he may never realize it himself, it will mean a lot—the hot, crowded rooms, the crying babies, the fierce fight for life and the inherent joyousness of his people that nothing can quite kill. Out of this jumble Tony ought to draw into himself something that nothing else could give. He comes from the People and he ought to give his gift back to them."
"Oh," Mrs. Dalton gasped, but Jean went on impatiently: "There's such a lot of talk these days about The People and their Power and most of us don't know what we mean by it. We hear such a lot about the Will of the People, and the Spirit of the People, and the Literature and Soul of the People, and we are beginning to hear about Music of the People. But here in America it seems to mean negro melodies or Indian lyrics, the plaints of a dying race. Why shouldn't there be modern, industrial music, not the blaring of factory whistles, but the spirit of industrialism, the life of the immigrants, the economic fight, the whole struggle of this great Melting Pot—sound etchings, like Pennel's skyscrapers and bridges. Tony ought to be able to do it. He has the genius, the heritage and the environment."
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Herrick, you must come and talk to the Lost Art. You put it all so vividly, but then you always did. Do you remember, in the old days——"
"Pardon me," Jean interposed hastily, "but Miss Lee is signaling me," and, feeling that she was not playing fair, Jean escaped. A few moments later she looked back and saw Jerome, whom Mrs. Dalton had at last connected with the Sweat Shop law, being drowned under a similar cataract, to the great amusement of Alice, who stood by, making not the slightest effort to save him.
It was Catherine who released him at last. The next moment, Jean was barricaded between two tea trays and Jerome was looking at her in real reproof.
"Well, have you any decent excuse? Is that the way you keep a promise?"
"Promise? Did I make a promise?"
"You certainly did. You let me suppose that I was not to be thrown to the lions without a saving effort on your part. And then you went and threw me yourself."
"But she would have gotten you in a little while, anyhow."