"And you,—you never married, did you?" I inquired, somewhat irrelevantly.
His semi-humorous gesture seemed to deny that such a luxury was for him. The conversation dragged a little; I began to feel the curiosity he invariably inspired. What was his life? What were his beliefs? And I was possessed by a certain militancy, a desire to "smoke him out." I did not stop to reflect that mine was in reality a defensive rather than an aggressive attitude.
"Do you live down here, in this part of the city?" I asked.
No, he boarded in Fowler Street. I knew it as in a district given over to the small houses of working-men.
"I suppose you are still a socialist."
"I suppose I am," he admitted, and added, "at any rate, that is as near as you can get to it."
"Isn't it fairly definite?"
"Fairly, if my notions are taken in general as the antithesis of what you fellows believe."
"The abolition of property, for instance."
"The abolition of too much property."