"Don't," Anne cried, "it breaks my heart."
Roger held her closer still and began stroking her hair again. But he felt, for the first time, a difference between himself and Anne. Was this just the difference between all men and all women? Or was it a difference between one viewpoint and another? The natural growth of life, the widening of human outlook, the wrenching of any bonds, these were pain to all the Mitchells in the world. The sentimental, clutching possession of "family" was Love to them. Roger wished he knew exactly what Anne was thinking, drawn close to him, her arm creeping up until it circled his neck in a clinging hold.
"Roger, let's never grow apart. Let's share always. Wait, if one of us has to, but never go on alone. I—I—couldn't bear it, Roger, now."
"Neither could I, Princess." Roger took Anne's face between his hands and tried to smile into her eyes. But, at the cool firmness of her cheeks beneath his fingers, the smile burned to a flame that scorched Anne's eyes; with a little sigh she closed them and raised her lips to his.
CHAPTER NINE
It was a few weeks after the Mitchell dinner that Roger came back to the office one afternoon to find Hilary Wainwright pacing up and down in a frank perplexity that he did not often permit himself to show; although, as the months had passed, Roger had come to feel very keenly that Hilary Wainwright, who never doubted his own point of view on a business matter, was growing more and more uncertain of his former enthusiasm for carrying out what he always called "the responsibilities of wealth."
Hilary Wainwright had been born to wealth, in a generation that had begun to question the right of such inheritance. Roger had always felt that Hilary was glad of this generation, which permitted him to enjoy his wealth, and, at the same time, by discussing his right to it, admitted him to the inner circle of intellectuals who doubt and lead civilization. He owned vast shipping interests, many sugar plantations in Hawaii and was often called upon by other capitalists to arbitrate their difficulties with labor. He went to strike meetings in a limousine.
He lived in a great, old-fashioned, inherited mansion far out on Pacific Avenue near the Presidio, surrounded by lawns and clipped hedges and conservatories. He lived alone, except for the servants, and entertained in down-town hotels. Long ago mothers had ceased managing their daughters in his direction, but the upper social crust was dotted with matrons, mothers of grown girls, who still had, in the depths of their hearts, a soft spot for this "idealist." If they had married him, they were sure he would have understood them so much better than did their husbands. These women contributed largely to the charities and civic betterment schemes in which Hilary was interested, and never refused committee work.
These schemes for the just treatment of labor and the improvement of living conditions among Wainwright's workmen, were Roger's special province, and he now saw them as a pond upon the surface of which he was paid to swim. Coming from an investigation into the justice of some strike, or from tense discussion with the leader of some industry, Roger felt like a diver bringing back strange fauna and flora, after which he had not been sent. Hilary always listened attentively, but sometimes he tapped his desk in a gesture that recalled John Lowell. He had a habit of saying "Yes. Yes," in an emphatic way, as if his mind were a hammer tapping each nail. But when Roger had finished, no completed structure ever rose from Hilary's agreement.
"Of course, Barton, I, personally, agree with you. There is a lot to be said for the other side. But, after all, present society is founded on wealth, and one can't disturb the foundations without jeopardizing every one—every one," Hilary would repeat, unconsciously warning Roger that he himself might go down in the welter, if every Wainwright suddenly put his principles into operation.