"I don't ask you to give up Socialism," Walter laughed. "On the contrary, as long as it seems truth to you, give up all the rest. Your ability seems to find its right setting in the party—just as Mabel's does in the trade-unions—just as I'd be ill at ease and useless in either.
"The point I want to insist on is my faith that, back of your reasoning and activity and back of my speculations and laziness, this instinctive sense of life is working out its own purpose. Only future generations will be able to know which—if either of us—is right."
This argument thrilled and fascinated Yetta. In the years that were to follow she was to hear such debates repeated endlessly. The new circle of friends she was to make were as passionately interested in such questions of social philosophy and ethics as are the art students of Paris in the relative value of line and color or the concept of pure beauty. In time talking would lose its charm; she was to realize that—as Walter had said—it often leads to brain-fag. But this, her first experience, was an immense event.
The two men leaned back in their chairs, their faces relaxed. They seemed to have talked themselves out. Yetta turned to Mabel, who sat beside her on the window-seat.
"You're not a Socialist?" she asked.
"No." Mabel replied. Such discussions bored her. "Nor an Anarchist either. I happen to be living in the year of grace 1903. I'm not interested in Isadore's logical deductions nor Walter's imaginings. They both know that if the working people want enough butter for their bread,—let alone Utopia,—they've got to organize. Cold experience shows that they can be organized on economic step-by-step demands, and that we can build up stable, practical unions along these lines—which every day are bringing to the working class a great spirit of unity. And cold experience also shows that the labor organizations which ask for the earth don't last. There have been dozens just like the Industrial Workers of the World before, and where are they now? Those people haven't enough practical sense to organize a picnic.
"If I were a theorist, instead of a rather busy person, I would have nothing against Industrial Unionism. It's on the cards, and I am working for it. But I haven't any time for these fanatical dreamers. I haven't anything against the Socialist idea of the working people going in for political representation. Whenever I get a chance I put in a word for it. But once more I've no time for people who don't do any real work and spend their time writing pamphlets about nothing at all and quarrelling over party intrigue. They're very wonderful, no doubt, with their reason and their imaginations—master-builders, the architects of the future, and all that. I'm quite content to be a little coral insect, adding my share to the very necessary foundations, which they forget about. Anyhow, to-night isn't 'Le Grand Soir'—and as dreaming isn't my job, I can't afford to sleep late. Come on."
In the doorway, as the four were going out, Mabel called Isadore, who was pairing off with Yetta, and asked him about the injunction in the cigar-makers' case. Walter dropped behind with Yetta. He was almost glad that Mabel had denied him these last few minutes of tête-a-tête with her. He had been looking forward to it all the evening. But there was not anything for him to say to her. So he talked to Yetta, as they crossed the Square.
"There's one thing I almost forgot. Mrs. Karner has taken a great fancy to you. I know she'd appreciate it if you went up to see her every once in a while. Don't let her know I suggested it, but something she said the other day made me see how much she likes you. She tries very hard to pretend not to care about anything, but at bottom she's serious—and good. In the League work you'll have to play around a good deal with some of the swells, and she's a good one to practice on.