Thyrsis had never heard such a speech as this in his life. When it was over, he went up to the platform where Darrell sat, looking more exhausted and pain-driven than ever; and in a few hesitating words he told of his interest, and asked for the speaker’s address, that he might write to him. And that night he posted a letter, introducing himself as a young writer, who felt impelled to learn more about Darrell’s ideas.
In reply came a note from the other, asking him to dine with him; and Thyrsis answered accepting.
Then, as chance would have it, he mentioned the circumstance to his mother. “Darrell!” she cried. “You don’t mean Henry Darrell!”
“Yes,” said Thyrsis. “Why?”
“And you would meet that man?”
“Why not?” he asked, perplexed.
“Haven’t you read anything about him in the papers? That monster!”
“What do you mean?”
“A man who deserted his wife and children, and left them to starve, and ran away with some rich woman!”
Thyrsis recollected vaguely some sensational headlines, about the clergyman and college professor who had done the shocking things his mother spoke of, and was now a social outcast, and a preacher of anarchy and revolution. He recalled also that there had been a woman, beautiful and richly-dressed, with Darrell at the meeting.