"It doesn't look good to me," Mabel said decisively. "You forget I'm not interested in your crazy little paper. What good is publicity to us among the couple of thousand hidebound Socialists who buy The Clarion?"
"Our circulation is over ten thousand."
"Pooh! Nobody but party members read it. Most of your circulation is given away—and thrown into the gutter. You think working-men ought to read a Socialist paper. But they don't. They prefer a real paper with news in it and pictures and a funny page. Yetta was a fool to give up her work on The Star. That was real publicity.
"You want to get Yetta on The Clarion. You surely do need somebody who knows how to write! You want her to drift away from the real work of organization—just as you did. I see through your mutual benefit talk. Instead of helping our work, you want to get her away from us. Well, the less she gets mixed up with The Clarion and your little closed circle of dogmatists, the better I'll be pleased."
"Come to think of it," Isadore said, changing his tactics, "I would like to see Yetta give all her time to The Clarion. As you say, we surely do need good writers. But that wasn't in my mind when I came in.
"I'm worried about Yetta. She needs to be kept busy—busier than she is. Of course I wouldn't want her to know I was butting in like this. But she's worrying about something—"
Mabel, her mind made up to be disagreeable, interrupted him.
"I knew it wasn't interest in the League that brought you here. I owe this visit to your solicitude about Yetta."
"That's not just, either, Mabel—although it's nearer right than your first guess. Yetta's principal work is with the League. It's natural I should come to you. I am really worried about her. Something's troubling her."
"What's the matter?"