But a few of his own intimates detained him at the door, and presently Whyland, who had ended his remarks and was on his way to other matters, overtook him. An officious bystander made the two acquainted, and Whyland, who identified Abner with the author of This Weary World, paused for a few smiling and good-humoured remarks.
"Glad to see you here," he said, with a kind of bright buoyancy. "It's a complicated question, but we shall straighten it out one way or another."
Abner stared at him sternly. The question was not complicated, but it was vital—too vital for smiles.
"There is only one way," he said: "our way."
"Our way?" asked Whyland, still smiling.
"The Readjusted Tax," pronounced Abner, with a gesture toward two or three of his supporters at his elbow.
"Ah, yes," said Whyland quickly, recognising the faces. "If the idea could only be applied!"
"It can be," said Abner severely. "It must be."
"Yes, it is a very complicated question," the other repeated. "I have read your stories," he went on immediately. "Two or three of them impressed me very much. I hope we shall become better acquainted."
"Thank you," said Abner stiffly. Whyland meant to be cordial, but Abner found him patronizing. He could not endure to be patronized by anybody, least of all by a person of mental calibre inferior to his own. He resented too the other's advantage in age (Whyland was ten or twelve years his senior), and his advantage in experience (for Whyland had lived in the city all his life, as Abner could not but feel).