At last she spoke.
"That—that is wonderful!" she cried, a tremor of enthusiasm in her voice.
He shook his head.
"No compliments, please," said he.
"I'm not complimenting you! I think it is wonderful. You're a true poet!"
"I wish I were—so I might use it all for Socialism!"
"You could make a fortune, if you'd work for some paper or magazine—some regular one, I mean, not Socialist."
He shook his head.
"Dead sea fruit," he answered. "Fairy gold, fading in the clutch, worthless through and through. No, if my work has any merit, it's all for Socialism, now and ever!"
Silence again. Neither now found a word to say, but their eyes met and read each other; and a kind of solemn hush seemed to lie over their hearts.