“Oh,” she said, softly, “you will!”
“I own that paper—practically.... I let it live. You’re dependent on me.”
Carmel’s eyes snapped now; she was angry. “I fancied I owned the Free Press,” she said.
“Just so long as I let you—and I’ll let you as long as you—edit it—er—conservatively.”
“And conservatively means so long as I print what you want printed, and omit what you wish omitted?”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’ve kept that schoolteaching fellow after I told you not to.”
She paused a moment, and then she said, very quietly and slowly, “I think, Mr. Fownes, that you and I have got to come to an understanding.”
“Exactly what I’m getting at.”
“Very well, now please listen carefully, and I’m sure you’ll understand.... At this moment I own the Free Press. Until your chattel mortgage falls due—and that is two months away—I shall continue to own it.... During that time I shall edit it as I see fit. I think that is clear.... I shall ask no advice from you. I shall take no dictation from you. What I believe should be printed, I shall print.... Good afternoon, Mr. Fownes.”
She brushed past him and walked rapidly toward the office; Mr. Fownes stood for a moment frowning; then he turned his round head upon his shoulders—apparently there was no neck to assist in the process—and stared after her. It was not an angry stare, nor a threatening stare. Rather it was appraising. If Carmel could have studied his face, and especially his eyes, at that moment, she would have wondered if he were so fatuous as she supposed. She might even have asked herself if he were really, as certain people in Gibeon maintained, nothing but a bumptious figurehead, used by stronger men who worked in his shadow.... There was something in Abner Fownes’s eyes which was quite worthy of remark; but perhaps the matter most worthy of consideration was that he manifested no anger whatever—as a vain man, a little man, bearded as he had been by a mere girl, might have done....