Yetta's motherhood had changed her subtly. She could not have been called matronly. In fact, Beatrice, who was childless, was poignantly conscious that she looked the more like a regulation matron. The contrast hurt her.
The thing which Yetta saw was that Beatrice had come to reflect the gracious refinement of her surroundings. There was a sudden longing that life might have thrown her into an environment where she too could have given time and thought to being beautiful. It was rare indeed that she could devote ten minutes to "doing her hair." It took all the time she could spare to keep herself clean and neat. Beatrice's appearance suggested that the selecting of even her underwear was a matter of careful thought. Yetta, also, was poignantly conscious of the contrast.
When the men rejoined them, they all—still under the constraint of stock-taking—climbed into the dogcart and drove through the quaint Oxford streets to the house.
Yetta talked busily—a bit raggedly—about her two children. Walter pointed out the towers of some of the colleges. Neither Beatrice nor Isadore added much to the conversation. The tea-table was set on the lawn, but the constraint was still on them. Yetta told with slightly forced enthusiasm of the little house and lot they had taken in a Building and Loan Association on Long Island. Isadore at last rallied in reply to Walter's questions and talked about the International Congress. The thing which had impressed him most was the widespread growth of revolutionary, nonpolitical labor organizations. The growth of industrial unionism in America was closely paralleled by the Syndicaliste movement in Europe.
"I never gave you sufficient credit as a prophet, Walter," he said. "I'm an orthodox party member still, but this 'direct actionism' doesn't seem so much like heresy to me as it did. It's too universal to be all wrong."
When they got up from the table to wander about in the University, he and Walter walked ahead, still in the heat of this discussion. The women brought up the rear. Yetta found that the easiest things to talk about were the babies and Beatrice's novels. She had read and liked them very much.
They sat down together in the grounds of Christ Church, and Isadore began to tell about The Clarion. Yetta joined in the men's talk, and Beatrice felt herself decidedly out of it. She was glad when the time came to go back for dinner. But that was no better, for still the talk clung to The Clarion. It interested them so much that she could not find heart to change the subject.
The moon came up royally as they took their coffee on the terrace. Without any one suggesting it, they strolled down the lawn and along the river. Great trees stretched their branches overhead across the stream. It was a warm night, and many boats were out. Their gay lanterns glistened over the water. Here and there a song floated through the dusk. The predominant note of the scene was laughter.
But the riverside did not seem beautiful to Isadore; Beatrice had never cared less for it. Walter and Yetta were walking on ahead.
Beatrice found a sort of whimsical sympathy for her companion—realizing that he also was troubled by the turn things had taken. The unrest of each infected the other. It required all the social tact she could command to keep up the semblance of a conversation.