I met Trotsky. We were at the Opera House, that mighty fine structure, used now to educate the people—all the people—in the song, dance and music of the world. The place was packed. We had been previously provided with the ex-Royal Box, with its splendid ante-room and retiring rooms, and they did us proud. They were glad to see us, as we came from the mother of all reform countries, with its trade union tradition and its freedom for the Czar exiles, etc. That was why we were given the best box, the best seat, the best of what they had. When the opera had been proceeding a while, there came a whisper round the place and we heard the word “Trotsky.” It grew from a whisper to a roar, and presently Trotsky entered our box and the band faced the audience. The ‘‘International’’ was played and sung with force and passion and power. Trotsky bowed his acknowledgments, and the cheers for Trotsky resounded again and again. As I stood beside him in that box, taking the salute, I wondered about him. Stern, stoical, he looked; silent and passionate, and yet he was the adored of the people. There were two mighty names—there were many other good names—but the mighty ones were Lenin and Trotsky.