Helen was the antidote for success, he reflected furiously. She was the medicine he had to take, a depressant that kept him down when he might have been up. Just let him get the wind in his sails, and she reefed him every time. He had been patient, leaving her to have her own way when it was not his way. Hadn’t he lived in his own house with those blamed Adams pictures glaring at him for nine years? Yet he had endured them for Helen’s sake. And the druggets, and the very cast-off teacups of Helen’s family.
Right now he was lying in old Mrs. Adams’ bed and had done so for nine years, when he much preferred his own bed. He had tried to bring Helen out, and she would not be moved. He had tried to dress her according to her station in life, and she would not be dressed. He had humored her in everything. But now when he had an opportunity, a big chance which he could not take without her, she planted her feet as usual. She obstructed him at every turn. She didn’t like Shippen. That showed which way the wind would blow when he told her. And he had to tell her. He could not move hand or foot without her. But, by heaven! if she didn’t come across this time—
“George,” came a voice from the adjacent pillow.
“Umph!” he answered, startled out of finishing that threat he was about to think.
“You asked me, or I should not have told you what I think of Mr. Shippen. But since you want to know—”
“I don’t want to know. I am trying to get a little sleep. I’m tired,” he interrupted.
“But since you ask,” she went on, “I think he is horrible. He reminds me of the powers and principalities of darkness. He made my flesh creep—”
“For the love of peace, Helen, stop. You know absolutely nothing about him.”
“What?”