Through a kind of wavering mist that seemed to swim before her eyes, she vaguely saw the words: "Socialist White Slaver!" but that these bore any relation to the man she remembered, back there at the sugar-house, had not yet occurred to her mind.

She simply could not grasp the significance of the glaring headlines.

And, turning a blank gaze on her father's face, she stammered: "Why--why do you give me this?
What has this got to do with--_me_?
With _him_ ?" "Everything!" snarled the Billionaire, violently irritated by his daughter's seeming obtuseness.

"Everything, I tell you! That man, that strong and noble hero of yours, is this man! This white slaver! This wild beast--this Socialist--this Anarchist! Do you understand now, or don't you?
Do you grasp the truth at last, or is your mind incapable of apprehending it ?" He had risen, and now was standing there at his side of the table, shaking with violent emotion, his glasses awry, face wrinkled and drawn, hands twitching.

His daughter, making no answer to his taunts, sat with the paper spread before her on the table.