matching them with club
for club, meeting for meeting, speech for speech. And when, in some
local instances, it can not be done that way, then, if there be
disorder, force!"

"It can be done entirely by education," said Palla. "But remember!--Marx
gave the forces of disorder their slogan--'Unite!' Only a rigid
organisation of sane civilisation can meet that menace."

"You are very right, darling, and a club to combat the Bolsheviki
already exists. Vanya and Marya already have joined; there are workmen
and working women, college professors and college graduates among its
members. Some, no doubt, will be among the audience at the Red Flag
Club to-night.

"I shall join this club. I think you, also, will wish to enroll. It is
called only 'Number One.' Other clubs are to be organised and
numbered.

"And now you see that, in America, the fight against organised
rascality and exploited insanity has really begun."

Palla, her hair under discipline once more, donned a fresh but severe
black gown. Ilse unpinned her hat, made a vigorous toilet, then
lighted a cigarette and sauntered into the living room where the
telephone was ringing persistently.

"Please answer," said Palla, fastening her gown before the pier
glass.

Presently Ilse called her: "It's Mr. Shotwell, dear."

Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver:

"Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes.... Yes, I am going out with Ilse....
Why, no, I had no engagement with you, Jim! I'm sorry, but I didn't
understand--No; I had no idea that you expected to see me--wait a
moment, please!"--she put one hand over the transmitter, turned to
Ilse with flushed cheeks and a shyly interrogative smile: "Shall I
ask him to dine with us and go with us?"

"If you choose," called Ilse, faintly amused.

Then Palla called him: "--Jim! Come to dinner at once. And wear your
business clothes.... What?... Yes, your every day clothes.... What?...
Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn't that a reason?... Thank you....
Yes, come immediately.... Good-bye, de----"

She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and picked up the evening
paper, not daring to glance at Ilse.

CHAPTER XI

When Shotwell arrived, dinner had already been announced, and Palla
and Ilse Westgard were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the former on
a step-ladder, the latter holding that collapsible machine with one
hand and Palla's ankle with the other.

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: "I'm tr