CHAPTER XXXII OLD FRIENDS MEET—AND PART
Four years after their marriage Yetta and Isadore received a tangible token of the respect in which they were held by their Comrades. They were chosen among the delegates to the International Socialist Congress which was to meet in London. No one who is not an active worker in the Socialist party can appreciate how much this election means to the Comrades. Every three years the party has to choose half a dozen of its members as most worthy to represent them in the international councils. It is a real honor.
They were, after their four years of unremitting work on The Clarion, in need of a vacation. They had not had one since their honeymoon in the woods. But, except for the eight lazy days in the second cabin of a slow steamer, they found very little rest at the Congress. Besides the regular sessions, so much time went to getting acquainted with the European Comrades, whose names they had long revered, whose books they had read. It took a big effort to escape long enough to have a look at the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey. That was all the sight-seeing they did in London.
The next to the last day, when Yetta reached her seat in the convention hall, she found a letter on her desk. She did not at first recognize the handwriting.
"Dear Yetta.
I suppose you've quite forgotten me. But try to remember.
Can't you and Isadore come down to Oxford for a few days after the Congress? Walter noticed your name in the paper among the delegates. We are both anxious to renew the old friendships. When can we expect you?
Sincerely,
Beatrice Longman."
Yetta was glad that Isadore had been detained in the corridor. She put the letter in her pocket before he joined her. All day long this invitation was flitting back and forth from the back of her brain to the front. In every moment of half leisure she thought about it, and more and more she wanted to go. It was partly curiosity to see what sort of a life Walter had made for himself, partly a desire to exhibit her own happiness. She did not want him to think she was still broken-hearted. And it was partly a very real tenderness for these old friends who very long ago had meant so much to her. But it was not until they were alone together in their modest hotel room at night that she spoke to Isadore about it.
"Oh, I forgot. Here's a letter that came from Mrs. Longman.—You remember she used to be Mrs. Karner."
"Well," he said, when he had read it, "that's simple. We're too busy."