Mr. Carroll turned his eyes back to the young man. “I have no connection with the street-railway company, Mr. Edwards,” he said deliberately, choosing his words with care. “On the basis of such information as I have been able to obtain in regard to the strike my sympathies are with the company. I fail to see why capital should have to make all the sacrifices and labor none. But since you—and Stacey—wish it, I shall be glad to hear you state the men’s side of the case. I should think, however, that some official of the street-railway company would be the proper person to hear it.”
Edwards, who had flushed, made a quick angry gesture. But this almost upset the fragile cup that he held; so he was forced into restraint. He drank his coffee hastily before replying.
“Well, sir,” he began then, “Carroll—I mean Stacey—thought if I could give you the facts as I did to him you’d maybe see them our way. I don’t want to talk about principles, sir—”
“Why not?”
Edwards glanced wrathfully at Stacey. “Because we wouldn’t agree about them and there wouldn’t be any use in our trying to.” His hand trembled slightly, and the tiny silver spoon rattled against his coffee cup; so he rose and limped over to a table to rid himself of the nuisance once for all.
Catherine leaned forward. “Stacey told me you had been wounded in the war, Mr. Edwards,” she said softly.
He looked toward her. “Yes, ma’am,” he returned, “at Les Eparges. My right leg was rather shot to bits.”
Stacey drew a breath of relief. He hardly thought Catherine was being deliberately tactful; she had spoken impulsively. But the result was excellent. And Edwards in the tone with which he replied to Catherine revealed that old-fashioned attitude of deference toward women just as women, which was also Mr. Carroll’s attitude.
“I hope they fixed you up all right,” said Mr. Carroll gruffly.
“Pretty well, thanks. I happened to draw a good surgeon.”