“Even by socialists?” Rose asked.

Keller considered. He wanted to be fair. “I dare say if I were a Russian I’d think so.”

Rose said nothing more. It was a clever answer, but it did nothing to change her view of Edmund Keller’s politics. Charlie, however, was eager to explore this dangerous territory further.

“Don’t you think capitalism oppresses the workers?” he wanted to know. “I think it does.”

Keller hesitated. “I suppose,” he said pleasantly, “that any system that gives power to a particular class will tempt that class to exploit the powerless. It seems to be human nature.”

“The capitalist system is a tyranny,” Charlie announced, “based on greed.”

His mother turned her eyes to the sky. His father smiled and murmured: “Remind me to stop your allowance.” But Keller, as teacher, could not help giving every proposition its due consideration.

“You could argue,” he said, “that any strong belief can blind people to other realities. Belief in profit at the expense of other things can be a cruel master. Look at that wretched business at the Triangle Factory, for instance.”

Rose stared at him. Did he really mean to bring up the Triangle strike now? To remind her how he’d tried to embarrass her, at Hetty’s luncheon, seven years ago? To start that argument over the factory girls again, when he was a guest in her own house? Was he being supremely tactless, or outrightly aggressive?

“Those striking girls,” she said very firmly, “were being used by socialists and revolutionaries. And the meeting at Carnegie Hall proved it very clearly.”

Keller looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean the strike, I meant the fire.”

For it was the aftermath of the Triangle fire that most people remembered. It had been a huge scandal when Blanck and Harris, the factory owners, had been taken to court and sued. It had turned out that the exit from the ninth floor, where so many girls had died, had been locked, and the fire precautions totally inadequate. Even after that, it had only been union pressure that had improved the standard of worker safety in the city.

“My point,” he went on, “is that the factory owners were so blinded to their workers’ safety by their pursuit of profit that they actually lost some of their own relations in the fire, and could have perished themselves.”

“The fire? Oh. I see.”

“It was sad about the girl, wasn’t it?”

“The girl?”

“The Italian girl you brought to that lunch. Anna Caruso. I noted her name at the time.”

“What about her?”

“She died in the Triangle fire. I noticed her name when the newspapers published the lists.”

“I wasn’t aware.”

“Mother!” Charlie was looking at her, in disbelief. Rose felt herself blush.

“How should I know such a thing?” she said irritably.

“I’m embarrassed,” said Charlie to his tutor.