ut that. My mother was a servant. I am--excuse the term--illegitimate. My mother is dead."
"Oh." Her eyes glanced away for an instant. "You speak perfect English."
"I might," he responded quietly. "I am a Harvard graduate--the most obscure one living, I suppose. I washed dishes a club of wealthy idlers at Cambridge, where I was humiliated for four years. But the time will come when the soup will be dished with a new ladle."
"What splendid phrases you make!" gushed Mrs. Whittlesea, momentarily diverted from Madame Semlin. "You must write for us!"
"It seems too bad," Sallie persisted, as soon as her aunt turned away, "that so much of your talk--you socialists--wasted among yourselves. You spend your really fine eloquence haranguing people who are already convinced. If you have a crusade--"
"I have!" he interrupted earnestly.
"--then why can't you talk to our class?"
"Who would listen?"
"You couldn't harangue us from the tail of a cart. You'd have to live a