Basine, listening to the uncomfortable distortions of his sister, made up his mind. He translated her vicious suggestions into the less inconveniencing idea.... "The biggest part of the work in the fight against the banks has been done already, Doris. And the rest anybody can do."
"Yes," she smiled, "if you're going to be of service to the public you must be careful to devote yourself to worthwhile reforms. You always had a clearer way of putting things, George."
She despised him. He could feel it now. He looked at her and wondered again. She was beautiful. A complete change had come over her since he'd come in. She seemed warm with emotion, alive, human. But she smiled in an offensive way. He preferred her viciousness. That was impersonal—something queer in her head. This other was a condescension that angered him. He sat thinking; she was playing with him. It would be better if he never saw her.
"How is Henrietta?" she asked.
The question had long ago became an invitation to confession. He avoided her eyes.
"Fanny and Aubrey were over," he answered.
She interrupted. "Please don't talk about them."
"Oh, nothing in particular," he hastened. "Henrietta is the same as ever."
Doris laughed.
"An ideal wife for a future public hero," she exclaimed. Basine frowned.