"You might have suggested the idea without intending to, you know. There are certain people who inspire prophecies—perhaps you are one."
His tone was playful, but she was quick to grasp at an inference—since his glance was fixed on the red button she wore.
"You meant that I would explode, too!"
"Oh no—nothing so terrible as that," he disclaimed. "And yet most of us have explosives stored away inside of us—instincts, impulses and all that sort of thing that won't stand too much bottling-up."
"Yes, I've joined the strike." She spoke somewhat challengingly, though she had an uneasy feeling that defiance was somewhat out of place with him. "I suppose you think it strange, since I'm not a foreigner and haven't worked in the mills. But I don't see why that should make any difference if you believe that the workers haven't had a chance."
"No difference," he agreed, pleasantly, "no difference at all."
"Don't you sympathize with the strikers?" she insisted. "Or—are you on the other side, the side of the capitalists?"
"I? I'm a spectator—an innocent bystander."
"You don't sympathize with the workers?" she cried.
"Indeed I do. I sympathize with everybody."