A wine glass, overset, had spilled a red stain--for all the world like the workers' blood, spilled in war and industry for the greater wealth and glory of the masters--out across the costly damask, but neither she nor Flint paid any heed.
For he was staring only at her; and she, now having mastered herself a little, though her full breast still rose and fell too quickly, was struggling to read the slanderous lies and foul libels of the blue-penciled article.
Silently she read, paling a little but otherwise giving no sign to show her father how the tide of her thought was setting.

Twice over she read the article; then, pushing the paper back, looked at old Flint with eyes that seemed to question his very soul--eyes that saw the living truth, below.
"It is a lie!" said she, at last, in a grave, quiet voice.
"What ?" blurted the old man.

"A--a lie ?" She nodded.
"Yes," said she.

"A lie." Furious, he ripped open the paper, and once more shoved it at her.
"Fool!" cried he.

"Read _that_!" And his shaking, big-knuckled finger tapped the editorial on "Socialism Unveiled." "No," she answered, "I need read no more.