“Hello!” cried Stacey cordially. “Come in. Where have you been?”—then broke off at sight of the other’s appearance.
Edwards was unshaven and rather dirty, and his eyes glowed darkly in his tense face. He shut the door behind him, then sat down opposite Stacey at the desk.
“I want to talk to you, Carroll,” he said. “It’s about the strike.”
“All right,” said Stacey. “I hardly know anything about it, haven’t followed it.”
Edwards’ eyes suddenly blazed. “No,” he cried, “of course not! What’s it all matter to you? You’re all right! You’re not your brother’s keeper! It—”
“Now look here,” said Stacey, firmly but pleasantly enough, “cut out the class business, will you? You know that’s not the way you feel about me or you wouldn’t be coming here to see me. I haven’t a doubt but that the men are right in this strike, but the reason I’ve kept off the subject as much as possible is because I don’t see what in the world I can do about it, and I don’t know anything worse than futile sentimental sympathy.”
“I apologize, Carroll,” Edwards returned moodily. “I didn’t mean that, of course. And I’d probably better apologize in advance for anything else I may break loose and say. I haven’t had much sleep lately.”
“That’s all right,” Stacey replied. “Go as far as you like.”
“Carroll,” said Edwards painfully, “we’re beaten. I mean, on every big thing. There isn’t going to be any change in the rotten system, not for now. There isn’t going to be any revolution. There isn’t going to be a beginning of socialism, all men sharing tasks, each according to his capacity. There’s just going to be the same tyranny there’s always been, the same exploitation of a lot of men by a few. I tell you, I’m broken-hearted!” He paused, his face set.
“You must be,” said Stacey, “if you hoped for that.”