"It makes us brothers." The Russian spoke with force and simplicity. "You, too—"
Hugo crossed the room restlessly. "I don't know. I am always losing my grip. I came to Washington with a purpose and I cannot screw myself to it unremittingly. These men seem—"
Skorvsky was thinking. "Your plan for them. What assistance would you need?"
"None."
"None!"
"Why should I need help? I—never mind. I need none."
"You have your own organization?"
"There is no one but me."
Skorvsky shook his head. "I cannot—and yet—looking at you—I believe you can. I shall tell you. You will come with me to-night and meet my friends—those who are working earnestly for a new America, an America ruled by intelligence alone. Few outsiders enter our councils. We are all—nearly all—foreigners. Yet we are more American than the Maine fisherman, the Minnesota farmer. Behind us is a party that grows apace. This incident in New Jersey has added to it, as does every dense mumble of Congress, every scandalous metropolitan investigation. I shall telephone."
Hugo allowed himself to be conducted half-dubiously. But what he found was superficially, at least, what he had dreamed for himself. The house to which he was taken was pretentious; the people in its salon were amiable and educated; there was no sign of the red flag, the ragged reformer, the anarchist. The women were gracious; the men witty. As he talked to them, one by one, he began to believe that here was the nucleus around which he could construct his imaginary empire. He became interested; he expanded.