The Beauty and the Bolshevist

								

those things. But whose fault is that? It’s the way I was brought
up—it’s all wrong. But, even though I am dependent on them, I believe I
could exist without them. I’d feel like killing myself if I didn’t
think so. Sometimes I want to go away and find out if I couldn’t live
and be myself without all this background of luxury. But at the
worst—I’m just one girl—suppose I were weak and couldn’t get on without
them? That wouldn’t prove that they are right. I’m not so blinded that
I can’t see that a system by which I profit may still be absolutely
wrong. But you always seem to think, Eddie, that it’s part of the
Constitution of the United States that you should have everything
you’ve always had.”
Eddie rose, too, with the manner of a man who has allowed things to go
far enough. “Look here, my dear girl,” he said, “I am a man and I’m
older than you, and have seen more of the world. I know you don’t mean
any harm, but I must tell you that this is very wicked, dangerous
talk.”
“Dangerous, perhaps, Eddie, but I can’t see how it can be wicked to
want to give up your special privileges.”
“Where in the world do you pick up ideas like this?”
“I inherited them from an English ancestor of mine, who gave up all
that he had when he enlisted in Washington’s army.”
“You got that stuff,” said Eddie, brushing this aside, “from David
Moreton, and that infernal seditious paper his brother edits—and that
white-livered book which I haven’t read against war. I’d like to put
them all in jail.”
“It’s a pity,” said Crystal, “that your side can’t think of a better
argument than putting everyone who disagrees with you in jail.”
With this she turned and left him, and, entering the ballroom, flung
herself into the arms of the first partner she met. It was a timid boy,
who, startled by the eagerness with which she chose him, with her
bright eyes and quickly drawn breath, was just coming to the conclusion
that a lovely, rich, and admired lady, had fallen passionately in love
with him, when with equal suddenness she stepped out of his arms and
was presently driving her small, open car down the avenue.
Under the purple beech Eddie, left alone, sank back on the stone bench
and considered, somewhat as the persecutors of Socrates may have done,
suitable punishments for those who put vile, revolutionary ideas into
the heads of young and lovely women.
In the meantime Ben, who had enjoyed the party more than most of the
invited guests, and far more than the disconsolate Eddie, had left his
vantage point at the window. He had suddenly become aware of a strange
light stealing under the trees, and, looking up, he saw with surprise
that the stars were growing small and the heavens turning
steel-color—in fact, that it was dawn.
Convinced that sunrise was a finer sight than the end of the grandest
ball that ever was given, he made his way down a shabby back lane, and