"But I'd like to see them again."
"You would?" he asked in surprise—and a little hurt. "All right; of course, if you want to. I've got to rush back. But there's no reason why you shouldn't stay."
"Don't be foolish, dear," she said. "You know I won't stay a minute longer than you. I wouldn't think of going alone. We could leave here after lunch Thursday and stay in Oxford for dinner and catch our boat all right. You see, dearest, it's sort of like dying never to see people who meant so much once. You don't know how much I grieve about Mabel. She was my first friend—the first real friend I ever had. It was my fault that we quarrelled. I wouldn't like to feel that it was my fault if I lost all touch with Walter and Mrs. Karner—I mean Mrs. Longman. They've asked us to come in a friendly spirit. I think we ought to go."
"Very well," he said. "Wire that we'll come. But it sounded to me like a sort of duty note—not exactly cordial."
As a matter of fact it had not been in an entirely cordial spirit that Beatrice had written.
One morning Walter, who very rarely disturbed his wife when she was writing, knocked at the door of her work-room.
"May I interrupt a minute," he asked apologetically.
"What is it?" she asked.
He came over and laid a newspaper on her table, pointing halfway down a column which was headed, "International Socialist Congress." Among the names of the delegates from the United States were those of Isadore and Yetta Braun.