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CHAPTER II

That same morning, about ten o'clock, Mr. William Cord was shut up in the study of his house—shut up, that is, as far as entrance from the rest of the house was concerned, but very open as to windows looking out across the grass to the sea. It was a small room, and the leather chairs which made up most of its furnishings were worn, and the bookshelves were filled with volumes like railroad reports and Poor's Manual, but somehow the total effect of the room was so agreeable that the family used it more than Mr. Cord liked.

He was an impressive figure, tall, erect, and with that suggestion of unbroken health which had had something to do with his success in life. His hair must have been of a sandy brown, for it had turned, not gray nor white, but that queer no-color that sandy hair does turn, melting into all pale surroundings. His long face was not vividly colored, either, but was stamped with the immobility of expression that sensitive people in contact with violent life almost always acquire. The result was that there seemed to be something dead about his face until you saw his eyes, dark and fierce, as if all the fire and energy of the man were concentrated in them.

He was dressed in gray golfing-clothes that smelled more of peat than peat does, and, though officially supposed to be wrestling with the more secret part of correspondence which even his own secretary was not allowed to see, he was actually wiggling a new golf-club over the rug, and toying with the romantic idea that it would enable him to drive farther than he had ever driven before.

There was a knock at the door. Mr. Cord leaned the driver in a corner, clasped his hands behind his back, straddled his legs a trifle, so that they seemed to grow out of the rug as the eternal oak grows out of the sod, and said, "Come in," in the tone of a man who, considering the importance of his occupation, bears interruption exceedingly well.

Tomes, the butler, entered. "Mr. Verriman, sir, to see you."

"To see me?"

"Yes, sir."

Cord just nodded at this, which evidently meant that the visitor was to be admitted, for Tomes never made a mistake and Verriman presently entered. Mr. Cord had seen Eddie Verriman the night before at the ball, and had thought him a very fine figure of a man, so now, putting two and two together, he said to himself, "Is he here to ask my blessing?"

Aloud he said nothing, but just nodded; it was a belief that had translated itself into a habit—to let the other man explain first.

"I know I'm interrupting you, Mr. Cord," Verriman began. Mr. Cord made a lateral gesture with his hand, as if all he had were at the disposal of his friends, even his most precious asset—time.

"It's something very important," Eddie went on. "I'm worried. I haven't slept. Mr. Cord, have you checked up Crystal's economic beliefs lately?"

"Lately?" said Mr. Cord. "I don't know that I ever have. Have a cigar?"

Eddie waved the cigar aside as if his host had offered it to him in the midst of a funeral service.

"Well, I have," he said, as if some one had to do a parent's duty, "and I've been very much distressed—shocked. I had a long talk with her about it at the dance last night."

"About economics?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, Eddie, don't I seem to remember your telling me you were in love with Crystal?"

"Yes, Mr. Cord, I am."

"Then what do you want to talk economics for? Or is it done like that nowadays?"

"I don't want to," answered Eddie, almost in a wail. "She does. She gets me going and then we quarrel because she has terrible opinions. She talks wildly. I have to point out to her that she's wrong. And last night she told me"—Eddie glanced about to be sure he was not overheard—"she told me that she was a socialist."

Mr. Cord had just lit the very cigar which Eddie had waved away, and he took the first critical puffs at it before he answered:

"Did you ask her what that was?"

"No—no—I didn't."

"Missed a trick there, Eddie."

It was impossible to accuse so masklike a magnate of frivolity, but Eddie was often dissatisfied with Mr. Cord's reactions to the serious problems of life.

"But don't you think it's terrible," he went on, eagerly, "for Crystal to be a socialist? In this age of the world—civilization trembling on the brink—chaos"—Eddie made a gesture toward the perfectly ordered shelves containing Poor's Manual—"staring us in the face? You say that the half-baked opinions of an immature girl make no difference?"

"No, I shouldn't say that—at least not to Crystal," murmured her father.

"But the mere fact that she picks up such ideas proves that they are in the air about us and that terrifies me—terrifies me," ended Eddie, his voice rising as he saw that his host intended to remain perfectly calm.

"Which terrifies you, Eddie—Crystal or the revolution?"

"The general discontent—the fact that civilization is tr—"

"Oh yes, that," said Mr. Cord, hastily. "Well, I wouldn't allow that to terrify me, Eddie. I should have more sympathy with you if it had been Crystal. Crystal is a good deal of a proposition, I grant you. The revolution seems to me simpler. If a majority of our fellow countrymen really want it, they are going to get it in spite of you and me; and if they don't want it, they won't have it no matter how Crystal talks to you at parties. So cheer up, Eddie, and have a cigar."

"They can, they will," said Eddie, not even troubling to wave away the cigar this time. "You don't appreciate what an organized minority of foreign agitators can do in this country. Why, they can—"

"Well, if a minority of foreigners can put over a revolution against the will of the American people, we ought to shut up shop, Eddie."

"You're not afraid?"

"No."

"You mean you wouldn't fight it?"

"You bet your life I'd fight it," said Mr. Cord, gayly, "but I fight lots of things without being afraid of them. What's the use of being afraid? Here I am sixty-five, conservative and trained to only one game, and yet I feel as if I could manage to make my own way even under soviet rule. Anyway, I don't want to die or emigrate just because my country changes its form of government. Only it would have to be the wish of the majority, and I don't believe it ever will be. In the meantime there is just one thing I am afraid of—and that's the thing that you and most of my friends want to do first—suppressing free speech; if you suppress it, we won't know who wants what. Then you really do get an explosion."

Eddie had got Mr. Cord to be serious now, with the unfortunate result that the older man was more shocking than ever.

"Free speech doesn't mean treason and sedition," Eddie began.

"It means the other man's opinion."

There was a pause during which Eddie became more perturbed and Mr. Cord settled back to his habitual calm.

"Wouldn't you suppress anything?" Verriman asked at length, willing to know the worst. "Not even such a vile sheet as Liberty?"

"Do you ever see it, Eddie?"

"Read a rotten paper like that? Certainly not. Do you?"

"I subscribe to it." And, bending down, Mr. Cord unlocked a drawer in his desk and produced the issue of the preceding day.

"I notice you keep it locked up," said Eddie, and felt that he had scored.

"I have to," replied Mr. Cord, "or else Crystal gets hold of it and cuts it all up into extracts—she must have